


Three years, no more

by Zeta_Mei



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 296 AC Westeros, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant AND totally a crack, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enforced intimacy, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn, With a sort of prenup agreement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28528215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeta_Mei/pseuds/Zeta_Mei
Summary: "Nobody had warned Brienne that the Kingslayer was like that. God-like.Nobody had warned her that she had to wed him."My way to thank angelowl, Luthien, golden_sword, mazily, BananaChef who have prompted for an arranged marriage AU, along with all the other participants to the Festive Exchange and to the Stoking Stuffer 2020.Hope you enjoy!Warning: multichapter, multi POVs (basically B&J), multi sets, a lot of bed sharing and sloooow burn (three years, no more😏) because Brienne's only 16 at the beginning, Jaime has issues and because they're IDIOTS
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 123
Kudos: 231
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luthien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/gifts), [angelowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelowl/gifts), [golden_sword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_sword/gifts), [mazily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/gifts), [BananaChef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaChef/gifts).



Nobody had warned her that the Kingslayer's brother was a dwarf.

Nobody had warned her that the Kingslayer was like that. God-like.

Nobody had warned her that she had to wed him. The god, not the dwarf.

Somehow, from the way the Lord of Tarth was clutching his elegant fingers around the slender goblet, almost wanting to smash its delicate silver reliefs, it seemed to Brienne that either her father had been warned, if not in the last few hours.

It was surely a wrong assumption, another of those silly thoughts birthed by her queer, restless mind. And yet. She drifted her glance to the table. The tablecloth was embroidered with stars and suns in cloth-of-gold, but it was not well ironed and was clearly _not_ one of princess Daella's dowry. Even the set of dishes were not the best that Evenfall Hall could offer. An enormous chiseled tray filled with roasted pigeons and with ducks, comically stuffed with oranges and pepper and cinnamon in a Pentoshi fashion, was posed among her and her _betrothed,_ and she heard him sneer for the umptheenth time of the evening. Not the hint of a quail, of a mallard, of a pheasant or a partridge as if there had been no time for a hunt. All spoke of haste, of tension, of slovenliness.

It was decisively not an adequate dinner for welcoming the Queen's brothers.

It was decisively not an adequate betrothal dinner.

Brienne herself was harnessed in the pink-and-cream brocade gown she used for the Sept, a plain dress, compared to the one that had been sewed for her meeting with Ronnett Connington... She regretted to have thought again about Connington, when she felt her neck go on flame, in the usual, splotchy, hideous way, and then the cheeks and the pale skin underneath the voile with which Septa Roella had decided to cover the already chaste neckline - as if Brienne at sixteen could boast anything deign of a man's interest.

She froze, and stopped tormenting her lower lip as the Kingslayer leaned on her. His breath was fresh and good-smelling, not stale and agonizing like Wagstaff had been when she had thrown him into the dust. “My lady, if you're planning to challenge me like you challenged your last lucky betrothed, I'd suggest you to reconsider the choice.” He pulled himself even closer, making her almost feel on her skin the whiteness and boldness of his sharp, amused smile. “I'm not a decrepit castellan, I'm a… I was a chosen one of the Kingsguard.” His voice had gone suddenly dark, all the mirth disappearing from it and from his handsome features. He sprawled again on his chair, emptying his goblet before gifting her of another ironic grin. “Furthermore, there something my brother has still to say, something that you may find even... interesting.”

Interesting. The word slipped down Brienne's spine like cold, chilling sweat.

It was then that Lord Tyrion Lannister started clinking his knife to the goblet to catch the attention of the half-empty hall, making the harpist and the flautist interrupt their song.

“My honorable guests,” the little man began, standing up and remaining absurdly short, “there's no word of mine which can describe the delight I feel in being here, in such a pleasant and moving occasion. Probably my happiness is second only to my brother's one, who's blatantly so taken by lady Brienne's kindness and grace...” , the people mumbled and someone raised a hesitant toast as Jaime-fucking-chuckling-Lannister took Brienne's hand to put a courteous kiss on her rough knuckles, “...to urge me asking for an immediate, private audience with His Lordship. To discuss the terms of the wedding.”

She hastily retreated her hand, on the verge of screaming. Of smashing that leonine grin.

Her father looked like a statue, still, handsome and unreadable. He waved a hand, and the hall resounded with the steps of the astonished, leaving people. Septa Roelle was the only one who turned, pale, to send her a desolate look from the treshold.

The shine in the dwarf's eyes was mid-green and mid-black, instead. Unsettling, and he was aware of it. He almost seemed to be looking at her and at her father, at the same time, but the Evenstar, notwithstanding his proverbial laziness and good-temper, wasn't an easy prey, at all. The blood of the Storm Kings ran strong in him, or so Brienne hoped, and feared. Tarth couldn't dare to defy the King once again, and was nothing compared to the power of Casterly Rock.

“All right”, lord Tyrion cleared his throat, starting to pace with a flagon of wine in one hand and a goblet in the other one. “Let's give a sense to this _ordeal_.” The Kingslayer rolled his eyes, annoyed or amused, it wasn't easy to decipher the spark in the cutting glance he reserved her. “The terms are quite plain, and sadly not negotiable. The first two healthy sons are for the Rock, so the first two daughters, the rest can inherit Tarth. Since it sounds like a lot of work, I guess the wedding can take place this same evening, and may the Gods bless the bride with fecundity and the groom with wisdom.”

At this point, the groom burst out in a strangled laugh, stopping as soon as the Lord of Tarth jerked on his feet with a dragon's roar, to push Brienne on the floor with him, just in time before the Evenstar knocked down the majestic oak table with an only stroke. In the clanging turmoil, lord Selwyn looked very much alike his great-grand father, the King Maekar whose portrait was hung in the left wing gallery: silver-haired, imposing and blood-thirsty.

Any other man would have grabbed a weapon or fled, but Lord Tyrion stood imperturbable, all intent on pouring wine into his goblet and Brienne's mind was crossed by the absolutely ridiculous thought that the dwarf's only concern was for the flagon he had saved from the Evenstar's fury, as if all the other people in the room were no more than puppets pulled by his strings.

“Jaime, you owe me a hundred dragons,” lord Tyrion said, deadly calm, sipping his red dornish with a prudent _uhm_ of appreciation. “Whilst I owe you an entire table of delicacies, my Lord Tarth, and even a table, it seems. It will be a pleasure to refund your lordship If your lordship will have the patience to listen to my _entire_ proposal and the intelligence of leaving _both_ lord Tywin's sons alive and unharmed.”

Brienne's father looked down at her and she blinked, twice, uselessly, the arm of the golden stranger still pressed on her waist, the other wicked Lannister still standing and waiting for an answer, his crooked shadow, taller than the one cast by the Evenstar, almost touching her.

She didn't want it to touch her, she didn't want the Kingslayer to touch her. She shuddered, and the pressure on her waist slightly increased - why, if to block her or to protect her, she couldn't say. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry, I wanted to update this fic and my other WIPs days and days ago, but I'm having a rough time. Hope you enjoy this chapter, for a start. 
> 
> Time to Jaime, now, to express his feeling (or, at least, a part of them) about his forced wedding with a certain wench. Please consider we're still in 296 - Brienne is barely sixteen and Jaime has never been in Winterfell nor he has ever pushed a kid from towers - because... well, no spoilers, I'm afraid you have to swallow a few more chapters. Thanks in advance for your patience.

Her eyes became absurdly large, and panic spread suddenly in them.

Jaime stiffened, then understood.

 _No kisses. Never,_ she had said and he had conveniently agreed. He had no intention, let alone desire, to kiss such a... wench. Or having any _improper contact_ with her, to adopt her father's funcking words.

Gods, the pale gown - that would have been gorgeous on Cersei and lovely on the most part of women - fitted the Evenstar's daughter even worse than the ridiculous pink rag she had got on when she had been admitted in Jaime's presence, hunched shoulders, a childish braid of wax to crown a broad face and a cautious look in very big eyes.

He stared at the tiny, delicate pearls decorating the bodice and the candid, slightly yellowing, lace on the neckline and on the sleeves. For the Kingslayer's bride, they had found no better than this old dress, made of crackling silk, that had been surely sewed a century before for another bride, more slender and definitely shorter.

The pearls were still nice, though, and with a ton of mother-of-pearl buttons they formed most likely the shape of a longsword on the front, the cloth-of-silver instead... A seven-pointed star? A waterfall? It was impossible to guess, being the accurate embroideries misshapen by the strong muscles underneath and also partially hidden by the crimson cloak.

The cloak Jaime had wrapped around a pale and immobile wench.

The Septon cleared his throat, again, and Jaime's fist clenched instinctively on the golden hilt of his blade, rubies scratching the callouses of his palm.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” the pox-faced man repeated with a strained tone, among a concert of coughs and whispers. He didn't need to turn to see them, the all of them, the notabilities of Tarth in their festive clothes, enjoying that mummers' farce along with an unshaven Tyrion, doing his best to keep a decent demeanor, notwithstanding the huge amount of wine that had been necessary to seal the pact with the prideful Evenstar and the strange creature that was now studying something on Jaime's shoulder, breathing fast and deep, like an entrapped fawn. As if she was the only one that had been entrapped and forced to mock any kind of sacred oath.

Smiling a smile that was less reassuring and far angrier than he wanted it to be, the groom leaned in to go on with his own personal tradition to cut traditions in two and kiss his oaf of a bride before saying any stale formula. It went easier than Jaime had supposed. The wench revealed herself brave enough not to flee, she just closed her eyes and scarcely parted her swollen lips. Soft lips, in truth, and soft was the skin of the cheek burning under Jaime's gelid hand.

She kept her eyelids stubbornly shut even when Jaime parted from her, and began repeating his little, annoying lesson like one of those multicolored birds owned by that beggar of Jalabhar Xho.

“...I pledge...my love...”, she followed him, in a murmur that smelled of lemon.

The Septon looked still dangerously stunned, though, so Jaime had no choice than sacrificing himself for a second time, lingering on those full lips of hers beyond his will and for the only reason that, this time, caught off guard, the stupid wench faltered a bit, reaching out her huge hands to grab at his sleeve and his doublet in a clumsy, yet not unkind, attempt of steadying herself.

When Jaime was finally freed from that unexpected embrace, he decided he didn't need to know what was no more well concealed in the depths of those blue pools of her, nor he needed to look down the aisles of the Sept to enjoy the sight of the huge statues of marble or of the livid Lord of Tarth, that amounted at the same thing, more or less. Probably the only difference between them was that the statues were less rigid, and surely happier.

The lion barely managed to resist for the last, and blessedly quick, part of the ceremony, just to welcome with a grin and a “ _no bedding_ ” roar the last words pronounced by the hateful, flustered Septon.

Jaime had enough of Tarth, his head too heavy with irrational thoughts whilst he walked down the aisle and pierced like a steel blade the cool air of the vertical gardens surrounding the Sept, breaking a wall of pseudo-dames and rough fishermen to sink into an evening poor of stars and rich of rosemary, myrth and other tickling, salty essences, holding strenuously the new lady Lannister's calloused hand in his to be sure she was following him to the harbor and to the fucking ship that had brought him in that damned place.

His voice resembled his father's when he ordered the captain to leave, as soon as they had climbed aboard. Fuck the _lady_ 's luggage and her dowry. Fuck even Tyrion, if his too clever brother couldn't run fast enough to join them in time.

Jaime just wanted to leave, and go home. He was so sick of lies.

The six-and-a-half feet fraud standing at Jaime's side left the convulsed grasp on the ship rail only when the last shadow of her island drowned in a sea of ink. The sky was moonless so even the cloak she was clutching to her breast seemed tinged of black - and the roaring lion on it had acquired a bloody, Reynes-ish reflection.

“I suppose we should retire, my lady,” Jaime said, not liking the sudden paleness of the wench's skin.

Her eyes shone like fireflies in all that darkness. “Spare me a title as fake as any word leaving your lips, Kingslayer”, she whispered, refusing the hand he was offering her and squeezing swiftly her huge body into the narrow staircase leading to their cabin.

Her shoulders were already as broad as Jaime's, and in a few months she would have grown tall as him, or even taller, and she was hideous and stubborn and full of piss, but about a thing she was right. She would never be Jaime's lady, that place was already occupied, and he hadn't lied about that – not totally, at least.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“You must be really in love with her.” These were the only words the pale-haired wench had uttered after Tyrion had spitted out his foolish proposal, and she had said them looking directly into Jaime's eyes.

“She's ...” For an instant, due to all that blue, he had been tempted to tell the truth, all the truth about him and Cersei, the truth that even their father had begun to suspect, but that he still denied with a ferocious strength. The instant of crazyness passed, blessedly. “She's the most beautiful of all women and she loves me like her own self,” Jaime concluded, ignoring his brother's grimace.

The wench remained silent, somehow saddened, the Evenstar emptying the space between them in a single, powerful stride, to fill the awkward moment with his harsh voice. Besides, the pale-haired Lord had plenty of reasons to hate even the sight of the Lannister duo, now.“So, ser Jaime, according to what I had the privilege to hear with my own ears”, the imposing, sardonic Lord put a warrior hand on his daughter's forearm, “at the end of the ordeal your brother had the audacity to propose, you'll gain your elusive lady's heart, whilst Lord Tyrion will gain the Rock, or the illusion to inherit it, at least.” The smirk left Tyrion's face to appear on lord Selwyn's one. “But my daughter, who is naught for you and all for me, what will she gain from a fake wedding? Nothing, if not scorn, and the unjust reputation of being barren, that will put an end to all her hopes to wed and give a heir to Tarth.”

“Hopes that are already at their minimum stake, after the Wagstaff's affair, I'd say”, Jaime retorted, the taste of bile resurfacing at the back of his palate. A sour, familiar sensation since he had been forcefully dismissed from the Kingsguard and re-integrated in his rights of heir to Casterly Rock as a gift for the new Hand, a gift turned to dust into Lord Tywin's fingers as soon as Moon Boy had delighted a drunken and already pissed off Robert with the amazing tale of a stormy maiden refusing to submit to the husband her father had chosen for her. A couples of jokes, then a suggestion by the apparently vain Lord of Storm's End, that had seemed merely another joke to delight that rose-pissing Tyrell lad, but that had become instead an order barked by an over-excited King - a test of the new Hand's loyalty to the Iron Throne or, more probably, the measure of Robert's despite for his queen and her twin.

“No, my lord”, broke in Tyrion, glaring at Jaime with his black pupil. “No one will ever dare to direspect the lady who has been, even for a brief time, a Lannister and Lord Tywin Lannister's daughter-in-law, in particular. And my brother is ready, here and now, to sign any declaration you want, in the form you'll demand it, to take all the blame on himself for the non-consummation of the marriage.”

“Lannisters lie,” said the Lord, gloomy.

“Of course, Lannisters lie, and prosper.” Tyrion regained his grin. “What I'm wondering is: can a Tarth lie, for a while, for the sake or this beautiful island and its people?”

Father and daughter shared a look, and for the first time Jaime thought it was truly going to happen. He was truly going to wed that shambling girl, if even for a fraud.

“Three years, no more”, Jaime repeated, more to himself than to her, wiping away the cold sweat from his brow.

“No more,” Tyrion insisted, gaining the wench's attention, “then, my lady, with your maidenhead intact as a proof, we'll ask the High Septon to set aside all the... thing, and you have my word that nobody will demand you to do anything against your will.”

An intense glance landed on the unlikely groom. “How about your word, ser?”

“My word?” The Kingslayer wanted to laugh, but the laugh got somehow lost in the desert his throat had become. “You have it, my lady, for what it's worth,” he managed to hiss, after a moment which seemed as endless as the Long Night.

“Three years, no more,” the wench agreed, finally, blushing a wild red. “But no kisses, never”, she added frantically, frowning at Jaime's sarcastic snort. How could she think he might be somehow interested in kissing her, that was the most absurd part of all that folly.

The cabin was small and windowless. Suffocating.

The lion in cloth-of-gold glimmered miserably from the wooden floor, where Jaime's doublet had been thrown with the right amount of indifference, just to make clear the groom didn't give a fig if the sullen bride wanted to spend all the night planted like a pole beside the door in her stupid heap of crimson and white silk.

He plumped up the only pillow of the berth and plunged his face into the thick cotton, her presence becoming even more palpable as he serried thigh the eyelids. He felt her, the more she kept silent the more Jaime felt those damned eyes of her and even every single freckle of her, as if they were impressed on his own skin.

“Wench”, he sighed, bracing on his elbows. “It's not what I'd want, me either...”. Under the sheet, at the thought of sharing a room and a bed so small with such a weird child, Jaime couldn't contain a shiver, no matter if it was too warm to keep wearing shirt and smallclothes. “We have to pretend to... don't need I say what, and better here than in King's Landing or in in Casterly Rock, where my father's spies would check out any details”, he tried to explain, soft voice, hoping to put a bit of sense in that big and excessively bejeweled head.

She gaped at him, the wariness in her eyes showing that Jaime's efforts had been as useful as heavy cavalry in a bog. “The door is locked, ser, and a true knight...”

“Would offer to sleep on the hard floor for the next weeks? That's not me, I'm too fond of my fucking ass, wench, to be perfect as a silly song, but don't you mind, I'm sure there will be lines of shining knights outside your father's pretty holdfast as soon as you'll get free of me.”

“Weeks?”, the dumbfounded gal bleated, almost choking herself, and Jaime was seriously tempted to rush to Tyrion and make him enjoy a good and refreshing swim in the dark waters.

“Weeks or moons or even years, if necessary, wench.” He rolled on the lumpy mattress, facing away from the annoying creature who was clearly as stupid as she was tall. “Now, do as you want, but let me sleep.”

In the background, far, very far from the world the former kingsguard was nestling in, the planks resounded of a few, hesitant steps and the air trembled with the ringing tone of something metallic immediately muffled and with the gentle rustle of a cloth carefully folded up and put on a creaking stool, and then, again, came the silence, a silence that was no Jaime's problem.

Not at all.

He wasn't even there.

He was far, on a wonderful shore, and he was fine. And exasperated.

“What's on, now?”, he almost yelled, turning against the statue of salt standing at the bed side.

“I-I can't undress all by myself,” she mumbled, her chin wobbling, and all Jaime's anger changed into something that was still rage, but mixed with something else he couldn't and he wouldn't name.

He scrambled on his feet - in his mind, the image of Tyrion disappearing amidst the black waves with a lovely chain of gold around the neck, in his mouth words too harsh for a wench's ears. Jaime's eyes ran on the bodice, his fingers traced the patterns of the embroideries on the frozen girl's back, looking for some laces, and found none. A groan left his lips, when she honestly admitted the serving girls had sewed the dress on her in the illusion to mask a cow into something more similar to a lady, and his hand grabbed the beautified sword he had worn in the Sept before the wench might even make another of her ragged breaths. An instant later, the dress was no more a trouble, just a pile of rags covering a couple of feet longer than Jaime's.

“See, wench? It wasn't that difficult, in the end.” He hated the way his fingers hurried towards hers and how the words poured out of his mouth, as if he was naught but a green squire who had never seen a wench trembling in a thin shift. “I guess you should lie down, in the bed, under the sheet and don't you mind, I'll stay above, above the sheet I mean. Besides, it's fucking hot here, isn't it?”

She nodded, her cheek aflame and her eyes still wide, maybe a bit too moist but calm.

_Fearless eyes, and pretty._

_No, the wench's not that stupid, and she's surely not a coward. Maybe Tyrion isn't wrong after all, maybe people will really believe her to be a Lannister, for a while,_ Jaime realized reluctantly, as the most unlikely of all brides gingerly untangled her fingers from his stupidly sweaty hand to climb the bunk and change herself into a bundle of cotton, which took an incredibly small place considering the astonishing length of her limbs.

“Good night, wench,” he left out, his sore muscles finally relaxing on the mattress.

“My name's Brienne,” the wall of sheet answered.

 _And mine's Jaime, you can bet your arse it's Jaime, but the right answer to “good night” remains “good night”, dunk of a wench,_ the lucky groom was on the verge to reply, but he was tired, too tired to fight a lost cause with a stubborn creature who had never uttered his fucking name, not even once, not even when she had accepted to became the closest thing to a wife that Jaime would ever aspire to have.

He didn't roll over, however, not wanting to give any satisfaction to the prideful pile of cotton, and concentrated himself on the soft rolling of the ship, hoping to dream of his only true love.

And there she was, coming to him barefoot on the white-and-rose sand, young, younger and more beautiful than he remembered, half a child and half a goddess with eyes the color of the infinite storming all around them, and he had no heart to tear away her clothes as an unexpected need urged him to do, because it belonged her so well that plain, wench's garb, revealing, more than hiding, the flushed skin underneath. So he contented to bask himself in her warmth, to fall asleep at her side while tasting lemon and innocence and myrth on her lips - _good night_ , she answered sofly and he smiled a drunk smile, 'cause they had time, they had all the time of the world, now, and, if necessary, Jaime would have ripped the sun in two and seized the moon to have back the years he had wasted and use them all to make love to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is a mess, but he's right about Brienne's wedding dress. It's a century old, more or less, because it was used, first, by lady Dyanna Dayne when she married prince (later king) Maekar Targaryen, and then by her daughter Daella when she wed her brother's best friend, ser Duncan the Tall. In my mind, the dress and a certain shield traveled to Storm's End with Daella&Duncan's only daughter, when the latter was sent as a cupbearer and a companion to lord Lyonel Baratheon's wife, along with her cousin, the princess Rhaelle, to settle the Laughing Storm's rebellion. Tarth heirs use to be fostered in Storm's End even in the past, so... a few years later, I imagine a tall, blond girl being wrapped in a pink-and-blue cloak and becoming Selwyn's mother.  
> To me, this is practically canon. I mean, Dunk is Dunk, the Targ part is lovely, but what I really want is Brienne being a Dayne of Starfall, even if for a few drops. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the need of another Lannister POV, and definitely not Cersei's. She has really a small role, here.  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, full of absurdities and schemes, because King's Landing is King's Landing. A boiling soup made with who-knows-what (or with who-knows-whom, argh).

He had a terrible headache but no choice, he _must_ save his brother from the siege of courtiers, excited by the unexpected wedding on Tarth. So, he swallowed a couple of sips of willow tea and resigned himself to meet the lady of Stokeworth. If he'd be lucky, she would be alone, and not with that poor innocent of her daughter or, worse, with the coughing machine which answered to the name of Lord Gyles Rosby.

Gods weren't benevolent with ser Kevan that day. There were already six people in the Small Hall, that was small only in the name, all devotedly and noisily admiring the gifts the next Lord of Casterly Rock and his lady wife had received from any corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Any House, important or not, had felt the need to partecipate at the happy event and, if the extraordinary refined model of the Oakenfist's first ship _Lady Baela_ in solid silver and aquamarines wasn't surely a trouble for the consistent fortune of the Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, ser Kevan was sure that the golden chain, with beads shaped like tiny seven pointed stars, coming from Sweetport Sound, had represented a sacrifice for the pious, but impoverished, Lord Sunglass.

 _Curiously, but maybe not that curiously,_ _all the Lords have felt the necessity to send their gifts here, where the Hand resides, instead then to Casterly Rock,_ considered proudly the balding knight, approaching the lady Tanda, who giggled like a maiden when he payed her the due homage with a respectful kiss on her wrinkled knuckles.

“My good, gallant ser, have you ever seen such a magnificence?”, the old Lady said, while her daughters and their companions kept flying like crazy flies from the piles of jewels and precious cups set on the long table to the rows of weapons leaned on the benches and on the walls. “As I told this morning to Her Grace, we're so glad a maiden of our kin has been welcomed and honored in such a way... isn't that a longbow, Falyse? What's a lady is supposed to do with a longbow, I wonder.”

“The lady Brienne, from her father's side, is a Tarth and partially a Targaryen, my sweet cousin,” broke in ser Gyles Rosby, before ser Kevan could completely focus on what the lady Tanda had just said. “Tarth is known for the ability of its inhabitants in the use of bows and longbows, while it was not that uncommon for a Targaryen lady to learn the noble art of war.”

The lady Tanda clapped her spotted hands, thrilled. “Oh, Gyles, I'm so proud of being your cousin! You're so cultivated! Ask him everything, ser Kevan, and you won't be deluded, our Lord of Rosby had no rivals about the knowledge of Houses and lineages.” The withered Lord coughed a modest, embarrassed cough. “But now ser, please, tell us, where's princess Elaena's dragon egg? I want to see it, the last time I saw a dragon egg, I was still a shy maid, cupbearer and companion of Queen Rhaella along with lady Rowena Arryn and the beautiful and lamented lady Joanna.”

Ser Kevan blinked, wondering if there had really been a time in which the short lady had been young and, mostly, shy. It must be before Summerhall. Everything had changed since Summerhall. The tragedy seemed to belong to another era, a forgotten past where Aerys Targaryen was Tywin's childhood friend and not the human wreck who enjoyed in torturing his lady wife and burning people alive.

Lord Gyles coughed again, covering his toothless mouth with a square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. “Tanda, my dear, the newlyweds haven't yet arrived from Tarth, the lady Brienne's dowry can't have preceded them.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was plain on the lady's thin face. “We have to wait, then.”

“I confess I'm impatient, me too,” added the Lord of Rosby, this time without coughing. “It will be a great day when we finally meet the new lady Lannister, whose mother was half a Velaryon and, since my mother and my first wife were also Velaryons as everybody knows, _cough_ , it isn't hard to imagine how much the lady Tanda and I feel honored to be tied, now, with Her Grace the Queen and with the Lord Hand and Warden of the West.”

It was Ser Kevan's turn to cough, or better, to choke on his own droll. The castellan of Rosby hurried to pat on his back with the energy of an old warrior, trying to break one or two ribs, and the brother of the most important man of all the realm began to realize he was actually on the verge to faint, here and there. On the left, the imposing cloaks of ermine and crimson silk gifted by Lord Gyles seemed so soft and inviting, when finally a bit of air reached ser Kevan's lungs notwithstanding ser Birchan's efforts of being helpful, then another, and it was enough to clear the knight's ideas. Evidently, maester Pycelle hadn't been too accurate in his researches.

“Are you well, ser?”, asked the lady Tanda with her most melodramatic voice, her hand grabbed around the arm of a young boy, no more of fifteen, showing a mop of brown hair and clever nut eyes. _Lord Rosby's famous ward_ , ser Kevan supposed, before steadying himself.

“I was merely moved by this fortunate series of coincidences, my lady,” he stated, daring a reassuring smile, one of those which made his Dorna smile back to him every time, with both of her nice dimples. “Now, I'm afraid I have to ask our cultured Lord Gyles to enlighten me about any details of ... _our_...recent kinship. It sounds terribly interesting.”

The Hand raised with the agility of a young knight and started to study the map on the huge table, his expression unreadable for anyone, but for ser Kevan. He knew how to recognize any little sign, and he relaxed only when he realized his brother was satisfied by the news he had brought him. This forced wedding was revealing itself an opportunity, maybe even greater than the original plan to wed Jaime to the only daughter of the Lord of Highgarden. The Tyrell girl had three brothers, in the end, whilst the lady Brienne was destined to become a Lady on her own right, one day - and if the Gods were good, not only of Tarth, that was already a lovely dowry in itself.

“Elaena Penrose, I remember her,” murmured the Hand, crossing his muscled arms. “An attractive, pensive girl with curious straight hair, pale but stricken with gold, who was more at her ease with old tomes than amidst the crowd of courtiers. Joanna esteemed her a lot, and once told me she had a gift for music, but, in truth, I never heard her singing or playing an instrument. I didn't even know she had wed Selwyn Tarth. All I know is Steffon Baratheon and his wife Cassana did truly appreciate lady Elaena's father, the former Lord of Parchments, and her mother, a Velaryon of High Tide, so they invited the pretty maid to Storm's End with her cousin, ser Courtnay Penrose, hoping their Robert to notice the girl and marry her, probably. Obviously, Robert disappointed them and gained only a loud and more than deserved slap from the honest maid. I had to intervene personally in the matter, with the old Lord Penrose, who was a good man, but too prideful and stern... you know how it works with people boasting some Targaryen roots.”

Kevan nodded, keeping silent, worried by the sudden deepening of the lines on the Hand's high and noble forehead. Princess Elaena Targaryen, who had wed four times, once even in House Penrose, was not exactly known for her modesty, but they said the Evenstar's daughter was a very different kind of person and she wasn't to be blamed if she had some drops of the Old Kings' blood.

“However, in the end ser Courtnay became the castellan of Storm's End and that was good, because he found himself clearly too busy to wed and provide heirs to Parchments. At his death, who knows? The lady Brienne or one of her children might be restored in her mother's rights. A pity Lord Selwyn hasn't claimed Parchments for her at the right time, when the former Lord died.”

“Lord Rosby says the Evenstar was overwhelmed by the loss of his wife and of his first three children,” ser Kevan suggested, thinking uncomfortably to what he would have done if Dorna or Lancel or Willelm or Martyn or even the baby Janei, still smelling of milk...

The Hand reserved his younger brother one of his cold glances. “Life is hard, that's why a father should act promptly to ensure his blood something more than a few jewels and a stupid dragon egg.”

 _And a harp, too. Ser Michael Manwoody's harp, according to Lord Rosby, with a charming crowned skull engraved at its base_ , ser Kevan thought, carefully avoiding any loud comment.

“About family and duty,” the Hand went on, finally sitting back at his desk, “I'm going to propose your Janei for the young ward of Lord Rosby.” A flash of green-and-gold eyes prevented ser Kevan to form any idea about such a thing. “I know Janei is only a few weeks old, Kev, and the lad is naught but the umpteenth of Lord Walder Frey's whelps. Yet, Lord Gyles won't refuse the betrothal, and we'll gain a dozen years, at least, to decide what to do with Rosby. If this Olyvar will behave in a proper way, well, our sweet Janei will become the lady of one of the richest castles of the crownlands. If not, it's a consolidated fact the lady Brienne has a valid claim to it and to Stokeworth, being lady Falyse clearly barren and her sister a simpleton.”

“A _consolidated_ fact?”

Lord Tywin had already begun to write a letter with his elegant handwriting, the opposite of Kevan's and Jaime's. “Kev, please. You took away half-a-hour of _my_ time to make sure I understood that you've spend the last three hours listening to how much Lord Cough and his third cousin were proud of being so closely related to the new Lady Lannister. If they're so happy and convinced of this _fact_ , it would be very ungrateful and rude from our part to disappoint two old and loyal servants of the crown.” The quill ran rapidly and sure on the paper. “Please make sure they will seat very next to the lady Brienne at the banquet of welcome, as their kinship requires. On my part, I'm already congratulating with Lord Monford Velaryon for the grace and beauty of the ladies with true Valyrian blood. The Lord of Driftmark has a son who is of the right age to be betrothed with Jaime's _second_ daughter, since we need the _first_ to wed into House Arryn, now that Jon Arryn is in debt with us.”

In debt. The Lord of the Eyrie owned his own life to the current Hand of the King and, more than that, he owned Lord Tywin the preservation of the honor of his House, unbeknownst to anyone, apart Kevan and the old Lord of Riverrun, whose health was rapidly deteriorating. The news of his daughter conspiring for her lord husband's death with that whoremonger of Paetyr Baelish had been too much for poor Lord Hoster. An involuntary shiver shook Kevan's spine as he recalled the lady Lysa - now a Silent Sister In Lannisport - could have become Jaime's wife, a life ago, but Jaime was Jaime, brave and golden and gorgeous even in his thirties, while Jon Arryn had too few teeth in his mouth and too many losses over his curved shoulders. The image of a pretty lioness instilling new lymph and life to the ancient, wobbly House of the Winged Knight was pleasing, in the end - if Jaime did finally his duty, of course.

That part shouldn't be that hard for the impulsive youth, and, with all evidence, Kevan's nephew had been pleased by his bride, since he had practically kidnapped her after a hurried ceremony, according to the Evenstar's furious letter, which let a very little hope for the lady Tanda to admire the famous dragon egg. The girl was barely sixteen, in truth, and any maid of that age had her taste of beauty - even Dorna had been lovely, in her own way, she was still so sweet and soft, even if not perfectly fitting all the ideals of beauty.

“Lannisters don't think that loudly, Kevan.”

“I-I had solved that problem, Tywin, with the fool in Storm's End, the one who dared to name the lady Brienne as Brienne the Beauty.”

“You've never failed me, Kev, so I don't see the utility of introducing such a boring subject.” The Hand raised his eyes from the desk and they mirrored a bald, bellied man, suffering of a increasing headache. “If you're so interested in fools, go and tell your tale to Moon Boy, bringing a plump bag of coins with you. I'm sure the man will find it of great inspiration and maybe he'll be so obsequious to compose a song in honor of the new lady Lannister. A ballad. I want it to be danced in all the squares from Dorne to the Wall, but we need to be cautious with any reference to the lady Brienne's Targ blood. She has too much of it, and still, too little.” The lion paused, caressing his lustrous whiskers with long, curate fingers. “Ser Duncan the Tall was the lady Lannister's great-grandfather. Use him. A shining knight, destined by the Gods to wed a dragon princess, and so on.”

“The smallfolk is still deeply in love with Ser Duncan.”

“With the legend of him, Kev. With the due time, we'll use even the Dragonknight for the people always looking for valiant heroes rescuing them from their gray lives, Aegon the Conqueror with the nostalgic Lords, Baelor the Blessed with the sanctimonious and all the other dragon stuff, if necessary. We have to be ready.” Ser Kevan hesitated, and his brother read again in his mind. “Of course, they will come back to Westeros, one day. _Fire and Blood_ are their words, because they're not able to do anything else. The fire is in their blood, I fear, even in that weakling of prince Vyseris, who's again in Penthos, with his pretty sister, to beg money for his cause, and King Robert is the shadow of the warrior he was, even thanks to our beloved Cersei. That's why I need anyone of us to do his part.”

“Lancel...”

“Green, too green, by now. Let him and your other sons and also Tygett's son squire for Jaime and gain their spurs, then we'll see. Into a brief time I'll have Tommen at the Rock, with them. Not immediately, Cersei has become unreasonable since Joffrey's in Dragonstone with his lovely uncle.”

“You did the right thing with Joff. Stannis will make a man out of him.”

“I doubt it, but in that case it will be Stannis' failure, and his alone. The King's brother craved to become the new Hand, he had a lion pup as a ward, instead, and he's so arrogant to believe he still had the good part of the bargain. Good for him. The heir to the Iron Throne is back to Dragongstone where he belongs, and about us, we're left with a couple of chairs in the Small Council to fill. Lord Baelish shouldn't have dealt with brothels, it's both inappropriate for a highborn and dangerous, unfortunately.” The shadow of a sneer passed quickly on the Lord's face. “Tyrion will take his place as Master of Coins, while I'll bet the fat arse of Lord Tyrell would be very pleased to sit at the table as the new Master of War. I still haven't decided yet, Highgarden, or Sunspear, or both somehow?”

The pause was filled with the smell of the sealing wax. Kevan had always liked it, and the roaring lion fiercely impressed by their family sigil. It looked as if it was made of dried blood.

“In every case, it's suitable to start a pleasant correspondence with Prince Doran.” At this point, Kevan had to leave, he knew it without any need from his brother to say the words. “Did you know he named his son Quentyn from a late Lord of Tarth whose mother was the younger issue of Maron Martell and the fist princess Daenerys?” Ser Kevan couldn't help, but open and close his jaw like a shark in a fishernet, whilst his brother went on. “The Great Maester Pycell has been of some use, after all. Close well the door, Kev, and put more willow bark in your tea, next time. You're not growing younger.”

“Tywin.” The man indulged on the threshold, the name of his brother reverberating like sunrays in a tower that wasn't great enough to contain it. “The Seven Kingdoms were lost, without your lead.” The knight truly believed it, and he didn't care if he gained only a roll of eyes from the his Lord.

The stench of the port hit him like a punch, making him missing sorely Lannisport and its delights. Still, he felt good. The tough saylors were busy with ropes and curses, but in all that confusion of colored shirt, ser Kevan could easily recognize the golden curls crowning Jaime's head, shining in the sun. The future Lord of Casterly Rock looked well. He had to.

Kevan didn't wait for him and his bride to land, preferring to climb aboard as soon as the fist boardwalk was fixed to the dock. He almost stumbled on Tyrion, his singular face lightened by a grin that Kevan interpreted as a good sign, before pulling him and then, finally, the groom in a huge, strong embrace, worth of Genna's envy.

“Gods, if you're in shape, Jaime. Where's her? Has the lady suffered for the bad weather?”, he asked, his voice a bit strangled for a worry which was only a memory at this point, just one sleepless night or two, when the news of a couple of shipwrecks in the infamous bay had reached the Hand's Tower.

“Suffered, you say? At which point of this unforgettable crossing, nuncle?”, replied a seraphic Tyrion, while the other brazen youth literally melt in one of his impossible laughs. “When the lady climbed the mast to furl the sail before the ship tipped, or when she decided to replace the helmsman because he had clearly more important and urgent things to settle below deck, like learning how to face a storm?”

“Well, nuncle, I believe the poor helmsman has suffered more than the _lady”_ , Jaime intervened, out of breath and still way too amused. “But you should ask her, to be sure, when she'll deign herself to stop playing with ropes and sails.”

Ser Kevan couldn't be more stunned. He followed Jaime's index finger to one broad-shouldered saylor grasped to the foremast who dared to wear the crimson velvet of Lannister and only then he realized the strong saylor had the soft, promising hips of a maid and a braid of pale, almost silvery, hair. The tongue refused to come in his rescue, at first, but he was still able to clear his throat in quite a lordish way and recuperate the dignity he needed to meet the new lady Lannister.

There, in that exact moment, the tall girl turned and noticed him, doing a sort of flip which was no deprived of a certain elegance to end landing on the wooden deck, eyes bright and cheeks of the nicest and wildest red. All in less than a heartbeat, but Kevan didn't miss the smile that passed on the groom's face in the same time her absurdly long legs flexed to impress the necessary strength to the jump. It passed quickly as he he had come - a sweet, truly amused, maybe a bit proud smile, so different from the teasing, arid smiles Jaime was used to put on display since the damn tourney of Harrenhal.

Maybe it was for that smile of Jaime, or for the girl's freckles. He loved freckles. His father once had taught Kevan a silly song about a freckled mermaid who changed Lann the Clever into a dragonfly so he could enter the Rock and steal it - the aging knight couldn't recall all the words, but the music was still there, alive in his mind after all those years, so he liked immediately the shy girl and even her attempt of smiling a crooked smile of welcome.

“It's a honor to meet you, my lady,” he managed to say, when she had finished her polite formula of greeting, then he did what a knight shouldn't do with a lady of higher rank, but she was so young, and a bit lost. He simply took the air from the maid's lungs with a solid hug, enjoying for once her refreshing smell of youth, the healthy solidity of her green body and even the crossed look shoot by a surprised Jaime. The more his nephew was jealous, the more ser Kevan felt relieved and in peace with the moody Gods.

With renewed energy, he began resuming Tywin's orders to the happy couple and to the smirking Imp. Of course, there was a lot of things to do, and in a haste. The bride needed to be properly dressed, combed and instructed about her meeting with the enthusiast cousins of King's Landing whose existence she presumably ignored till that moment and, obviously, about her introduction to the King.

And to the Queen.

Cersei wasn't that kind, in that period of her life - she had never been known for her patience or her openness, in truth - but ser Kevan soon decided that the lady Brienne's eyes were kind and determined enough to tolerate a bit of pressure.

 _And they're of the most startling blue I have ever seen,_ he thought, smiling when Jaime called her “wench” for the seventh time and, for the seventh time, the girl replied with a frown.

Lovers could be so stupid, sometimes.

The page helping the Hand in the magnificent garb of gold-of-cloth and rubies was really too skinny, even for a Payne, and Paynes appeared in all the Westerland pranks because of their being often excessively slim, the opposite of the Crakehalls and, more recently, the Cleganes.

 _A good, obedient and discreet child, but decisively too tongue-tied to assist Tywin, I have to find the lad another task, more fitting. Not with Tyrion, Tyrion is witty but blatantly unsuitable to form a knight. Maybe Jaime, if he'll survive the lovely reunion with his sister,_ ser Kevan pondered, waiting for his brother and Lord to calm down.

Oh, apparently the Hand never raged but Kevan knew how terrible and cold Tywin's rage could be under the surface, the more now that the offenders were his beloved twins. Jaime hadn't still find the time to homage his Lord father of a visit, but he had found the time to run to his sister, instead, and the echo of their epic quarrel had been heard even by the stableboys. It had been too a lovely day to last, with Tywin almost smiling when Kevan had told him the lady Brienne was effectively ugly, maybe even uglier than what they had expected her to be, surely a bit too clumsy and green, but she had managed somehow to swallow a few books and Tyrion's lessons on the ship, proving to be smart and willing - and she had good hips. Good hips were far more important than a pretty face.

“Go and make sure the bride is at her ease, I'll meet her in the Great Hall, along with the King, if Robert hasn't decided at the last minute to flee and go hunting,” the Hand finally said, gloomy.

Kevan nodded, and left, waving a hand to the Payne page. With this minute companion, the Lannister knight climbed down a hundred stairs and trespassed a little hall, before knocking to the lady Brienne's apartment.

A desolated Septa opened the thick door. “I did only what I was ordered to do by Her Grace, ser, but...” She shut deaf, and ser Kevan understood with a glance why the plump woman was so upset. If the girl wasn't a beauty in Jaime's breeches and doublet, well, in this dress chosen for her by Cersei she was a disaster, and judging from the way the girl was stubbornly studying her silk slippers, she was perfectly aware of it.

“You look beautiful, my lady”, ser Kevan declared, and she said nothing. He felt very bad for her, but there was no time to find a remedy. On the contrary, they had to move if they didn't want to be late, so they moved, Kevan hoping she wouldn't suffocate in that hateful and pomptuos dress whilst he offered the saddened bride his arm because obviously her dump groom wasn't still there - the black-haired page following like a good dog, because the old knight had forgotten to tell him to wait behind.

It wasn't relevant. The corridors were already full of courtiers too low ranked to be admitted before the Iron Throne in such an important occasion, all smiling and bowing, because, in the end, the maid hadn't to be scared of mockeries. She was a Lannister, now.

The lady Tanda and her kin flew into them as soon as they arrived in front of the monumental entrance to the Great Hall, and they must be blind or lackwit or probably both, because they started sniffing and repeating that the lady Brienne was the reincarnation of some Targaryen queen - the Maiden made flesh according to the Lord of Rosby. His Frey ward exchanged a quick astonished look with the Payne page, but in all that mummer's farce the fushed girl kept calm and gentle, even if a bit out of breath, and Ser Kevan finally spotted Jaime, literally sparkling in the new doublet he wore.

The garbs of bride and groom were matching, yet the contrast among the two couldn't be more evident. As Jaime got closer, the girl bit her lower lip, her breaths becoming a bit too irregular, for Kevan's taste.

“All fine, my lady?”, he whispered in her ear.

“It's only...”, she set her eyes into Kevan's, then they came back to Jaime. “It's all so... different, here.”

“It's King's Landing, my lady. Nobody is truly happy, here and Jaime... Jaime has passed some rough moments, here. In Casterly Rock, it will be different, you'll see,” he said, patting on the back of the lady's hand. It was cold, and sweated.

Jaime must have noticed the same thing, when he took his lady's hand, but he said nothing - sometimes, he looked very distant from what was happening under his own eyes. Kevan shook his head, telling to himself that the sudden paleness of the girl could be explained by the emotion of being presented to the court.

An instant later, the thick door opened, the huge, impressive shadow of the Iron Throne catching all Kevan's attention, now. It had something of magnetic, that chaos of steel and ugly memories of war, of a sack gone far too rough.

The more the knight disliked it, the more he found himself attracted by the mass of contorted swords, ignoring the fat bearded man seated on it, who was not half as splendid as the Queen or the Hand, seated at the throne sides, at the base of the staircase.

“Jaime, it's here, here's where it happened...”, ser Kevan heard the young lady murmur to her lord, her voice small and so full of anguish that his stomach churned.

“Wench, you shouldn't... wench!”, Jaime shouted, suddenly anguished, him too, and with horror the Hand's brother turned and saw the tall girl oscillating, then sag in Jaime's arms, and it was as if all the blood had drained from her white skin to the dress and it absurdly reminded the old man of another child wrapped in crimson, a child who would have been of an age with the kind girl if she had been allowed by a cruel king to escape in time from lions and wolves.

He wasn't made for thinking, though, but for acting, as a good warrior, so ser Kevan elbowed some useless noble to step forward, preceded only by the steadfast leap of the skinny page and by the harmonious sound of Cersei's laugh, followed by her high, sure voice.

“Please, our beloved guests, no need to worry. Is there nothing sweeter than a young and beautiful bride blessed so soon with a pregnancy?”, Her Grace proclaimed and ser Kevan felt the strangest sensation of his life when he saw first Tywin's, then Jaime's face.

Strangely, notwithstanding the fact his nephew had always been more alike his mother Joanna and far more handsome than his father, Jaime was the portrait of Tywin now, unreadable and unpredictable, but his eyes were pure, bright flames of green. _It's a good thing,_ the knight decided, admiring the young lion carrying away from the crowded hall the white-and-crimson girl, gingerly, as if she was his own pulsing heart, somehow stolen from his chest.

Maybe Cersei was right, in the end. Maybe this arranged wedding was blessed by the gods, by the Mother hopefully, like the Lady Tanda bleated annoyingly in ser Kevan's ears. All the Lannister knight wished for the groom and bride was to leave that stinking and rotten city for the green and perfumed hills of the Westernlands, however.

Soon, possibly.

***

Princess Elaena Targaryen holding her dragon egg vs King Maekar I Targaryen (Daella's father) holding a spiked mace, art by AMOK

In my mind, Brienne resembles a lot to the latter, even in the weapon choice :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a monster, I know!  
> Here's a recap of the crack moment which has lead to J&B forced marriage, if it can be helpful.  
> At a certain point in 296, Tywin feels the need to see his beloved twins and, once in the capital, maybe when in the company of a few generous women, he finds out that a certain whoremonger nicknamed Littlefinger has a sordid affair with the current Hand's wife. Jon Arryn is safe but annihilated, so he resigns and repairs to the Eyrie with his heir, Littlefinger conveniently disappears (probably into a stew), Lysa joins the Silent Sisters with her father's assent (easy to justify her sudden vocation with the grief for too many abortions) and Tywin becomes the new Hand, because he's in the right place and in the right time, while Ned is in Winterfell. Stannis is satisfied because he gets the privilege to foster Joffrey (I'd like a Davos' POV about it, but not in this fic), Robert is always half-drunk, Renly feels sieged so he plays the card “loyal Brienne”, and here we are. 
> 
> Second recap, about Brienne's dragon blood. I've plainly exaggerated with it, but it's not totally a non-sense. Targs have always been prolific, their descendants are spread everywhere (especially princess Elaena's ones - well done princess, I'd add), while, on the other side, a tie between House Tarth and House Penrose/Velaryon is not that implausible, judging from Tarth position. To me, as I've already explained, Dunk&Daella Targaryen is canon; about Dorne, I admit it's just that I liked Quentyn as a name ;) and I want Quentyn Martell to live and be happy, in this AU. Indulge me, and thanks for your time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne finally puts her lovely foot in the Westerlands!  
> Hope you enjoy :)

The heavy wagon bounced on a stone or an a big root, and the too tall girl woke up, half cramped and very, very miserable. The heavy curtains didn't allowed Brienne to watch outside, but judging from how much noisily her belly rumbled, it must be late in the morning. She had slept an hour, no more, and had no idea of what to do in order to pass the time without being overwhelmed again by the illogical, uncomfortable sensation of being dragged back to the capital. It was such a stupid feeling.

 _It has been all such a..._ Tears pricked at her eyes, and she let fall them, for a change. The privilege of being alone, in a wagon so large and lavish that would have represented a fairy shelter for more than a lesser Lord.

Another bounce, and she almost bit her tongue. Not that it had been of great use, lately, in her last sixteen years. Brienne felt her skin burning, the humiliation of having fainted like an helpless maid before the King had only exacerbated the bitterness of her past failures. Even the immense bunch of roses gifted to the _loveliest of all brides_ by Renly's friend hadn't helped a lot, Brienne was glad that Jaime had thrown it in the first river they had met on their journey, less glad he had done it without even asking her.

He never asked. He had barely been talking to her anymore, since they had landed in King's Landing port. Luckily, due to her _condition_ , Brienne had been spared to accompany her _immensely felicitous lord_ to banquets, balls and appointments of all kinds. They had to spend together only the nights, in truth – he came often late and crumbled on the mattress, his back angry and solid and still, never leaving his side of the huge bed they had been forced to share. He pretended to be asleep even when he wasn't. About that, the maid of Tarth had nothing to complain; on the contrary, she had soon adopted the same method, keeping her eyes and her mouth closed, even when the unbearable man had begun to sleep under the silk sheet, his smell filling her nostrils with such an arrogance to drive her foolish.

 _On the ship, it has been different. Better, somehow - even good, sometimes._ When Jaime had apologized to her, more or less, for having left Tarth too hastily, condemning her to borrow his own clothes. When he had thanked her so warmly for such a little thing like wiping away the vomit from Tyrion's face after the storm. When he had vigorously rubbed her arms, because she was soaked and a bit trembling - for the cold, not for anything else. Only for the cold.

She took her head in her hands. It had been nothing. A few sparks of gentleness in a sea of scorn and mockeries, and, however, whatever it had been, it was gone, now, and she was so...angry? Vexed? Confused?

Lonely.

Brienne had never felt _that_ lonely in Tarth.

She was even beginning to miss Tyrion and his weird, childish habit to put all his hopes on the Dragon at cyvasse. She ought to let him win one or two times... The wagon door opened without having stopped nor slowed, and a couple of flashing green eyes jumped inside before the maid could manage to pull out an handkerchief from one of the ridiculously long sleeves of her cream gown, lined with ermine and, obviously, with rows of lions and suns embroidered in cloth-of-gold.

“Time to change yourself, my fair lady”, the brazen man proclaimed, throwing a bundle of clothes into her lap, before sinking on the brocade cushions with a reckless _thud_. “Be quick, I'm sick of this fucking wagon.” Black breeches, a long tunic in soft velvet, tinged in the dark shade of the oak leafs, and also a leather coat, sleeveless, with steel _lionheads_ and studs decorating the front and the shoulders. “You should learn better how to hide your amazement, wench. You're a Lannister, in the end, aren't you?” The smile curving Jaime's perfect lips never reached his eyes, but it was however less sharp than those he had been reserving her in King's Landing. “There's a couple of spies, included sweet cousin Cleos, who will delight us with their company for all the travel to the Rock, but the most of the men are loyal to me and we'll meet soon other allies, so don't worry, my sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?”

“Oblivious wench, we're the happiest people in all the seven damn kingdoms, don't you know?” His teeth were so white, his glance so cutting. “Just try not to ride too far from your beloved lord husband, and please stop chewing that damned lip. A Lannister lady... Gods, why am I wasting my breath with such an absurd child?”

“I beg you, my lord, do not private your precious lungs of the pure and healthy air of this pleasant wagon,” Brienne said, tense, the stench left by the flowers still so heavy to choke her, “Gods saves me from becoming a widow too soon because of the generosity with which my lord spreads his pearls of wisdom.”

He bursted in a laugh, the shameless lion, his curl waving like a veritable mane of gold. “Glad to see you're back, wench. A morning ride from King's Landfill and you look decisively recovered.” He uncrossed his legs, crossing his arms instead. “I can hope it has been only an accident, can I?”

“It has been the bodice, laced too tight, I told you.”

“The bodice, sure. Nothing else.”

“Nothing else.” The rest had been only a dream, and she was extremely repented of having told him when she had woke up. He already thought she was an idiot, she truly didn't need him to believe she was an impressionable girl who had crazy visions of murdered children, but he was the only one with her in the small chamber when she had got back and his voice was soft... Brienne didn't recall the words, though. Probably it was only a part of the stupid dream - her beloved half was as soft as a razor. “I'm perfectly fine, ser,” she concluded to get rid of that inquisitive glance.

The Lannister scum patted twice on her knee, with a smug smirk. “I'll have to pin my hopes on a horse fall or a bad-belly, then. Your island is a sweet plum, my lady, and, differently from you, I'd be such an attractive widow,” he stated and, an instant later, the Maid of Tarth was again alone in the wagon, a court of steel lions staring at her from her lap with their tiny malachite sparks.

***

Wherever her eyes sat, there were hills.

Rolling hills or steep, a few of them so harsh and high on the horizon to have the right to be considered real mountains. Some were a deep green, spotted with yellow and red flowers, others were barren, silver-gray or bronze, and smelled of hidden treasures. There was a lot of people, too. Forgetting all she had learned about the Westernlands, Brienne had hoped to meet just a few peasants and instead there were rivers of folks, farmers, sheperds, fat millers and land-keepers, butchers and sellers of any kind of stuff, a lot of artisans, too, truly a lot. And crowds of miners, rough faced and tough, blinking in the light as if the sun was a stranger to them. All well dressed, clean and composed, with their families, children screaming of excitation at the passage of the long parade of knights, squires, pages and young highborn girls that had join their column, wishing to serve in some position at Casterly Rock.

Jaime had told her to nod and occasionally wave a hand; it wasn't a problem if a maid or a crone would have tried to touch the new Lady Lannister's clothes or if a child would have offered her an apple or a flower. “Curve your lips up, take a bite of the apple, sniff the flower, toss a dragon and go on, wench. Just pay attention not to stamp on a brat with that hideous mare of yours.”

Brienne had glared at him, vexed. First, they were was mindful of children, in Tarth. Second, the mare Jaime had gifted her was beautiful, slender but strong, red and dark as blood, safe for her mane, which had the color of honey, glowing a metallic glow, gold in the daylight, silver in the moonlit. Poor, innocent mare. Condemned to be called ugly, only because Brienne was ugly, and dumb.

She had spend the last week in a perennial state of haze, confused by all those “my lady”, “sweetheart” and those unrequired touches that Jaime claimed to use to warn her or help her or “ _fuck, wench, they have to think we're fucking” -_ Gods, he had really used that filthy word twice in a sentence - nought but another way the nice lion had found to tease and destabilize her when she had the most need of her wits. Remembering all the Houses and the ladies and lords and knights and castellans and masters of arms and maesters and septons and prominent figures... was quite a mess. Tyrion's advices had saved the inexpert maid more than once, for instance when she had met Lord Andros Brax and his three sons, all knights, before the walls of Deep Den, the seat of house Lidden.

“Hornvale controls the headwaters of the Red Fork, Brax are valid men, wealthy and proud enough to propose to mix into the Tullys of Riverrun, they'll love the fact you're _pure_ andal blood, my lady, so spare them the lovely stuff about the Kings of Tarth and Morne your sire likes so much and, please, please, don't laugh at them the first time you'll see their absurd unicorn helms,” Tyrion had said, and Brienne had obeyed, with a certain effort. The spiral horn on Ser Flement's helmet was at least two feet long and Jaime winked at her in the precise moment in which she was noticing the amethyst glowing at its top... in the end, she managed to keep serious, her smile was maybe a bit too wide, but nor the Brax, nor the Liddens with their green-and-brown doublets, nor the Serrets from Silverhill seemed to be impressed by Brienne's crooked teeth, by her uncommon appearance and ...breeches. The same was for the ladies, the servants, the smallfolk, as if the Lannister mark had made the mannish girl a otherwordly creature. It was so unusual to Brienne that she almost welcomed Jaime's jokes at nights, when they were finally left alone, or the sneers Sandor Clegane reserved to her. Clegane was the only one who dared to be brutally frank with her the rare moments they had talked, but he was no more than an angry dog, as he used to boast, whilst his brother...

 _No use of thinking of monsters,_ the lonely girl thought, as Jaime spurred his destrier towards her. It was another splendid animal, that looked almost a twin of Honey, Brienne's mare. It was Podrick who had found the name, and Brienne had liked it since the very beginning. She had been a bit uncertain about the name the other page, Peck, had suggested for Jaime's horse, but Peck, Pod and the Brax boy were enthusiast, so she has quickly agreed. Honor was a nice name, in the end, and names had no great importance. Brienne was a lovely name for instance, and she was far from being lovely, so she had still to understand why Jaime had gazed at her so intensely at the moment of the choice and of the following toast in the Deep Den's great hall.

“My lady,” Jaime smiled such a blinding smile to leave her almost breathless. For all him being a bad-mannered, intolerable man, Brienne was glad his mood had changed so sensitively in better since they had entered the Westerlands, “if you're not too tired of riding, there are a few people waiting for us and I'd like you to meet them,” he leaned so close that she was obliged to tight the grasp on Honey's bridles, “far from this ocean of Liddens, Brax, Peckletons, Sarsfields...”

“Is there some Sarsfields, too?” Brienne replied, stunned, giving three dragons to a poor cripple who had tossed her daffodils and blue-bells and, then, darting her eyes on the multitude of men riding with them. She'd like to confront with a Sarsfield about the saddles their mounted archery was famous for.

“Wench!”, Jaime snorted, impatient. “Are you coming or not?”

Her arse was sore and she was already annoyed with him since the last night, spent in the modest keep of Lady Lucinda Broom, whose husband had been part of a lesser branch of the very ancient House Broom. A narrow bed couldn't be an excuse to invade Brienne's space with hairy legs and cold hands, no matter if the scum didn't do it because of some unmentionable motives. “May I ask Pod to come?”, she heard herself answering, to her own surprise.

“Yes, you can _order_ your pet to come, if you want”, Jaime replied, rolling his eyes. “Summon Clegane, too. He's so sad and bored, since that stiff cousin of yours refused him to follow Joffrey to Dragonstone.”

“Lord Stannis isn't a cousin of mine, actually.”

“Are you sure, my lady? Even neglecting the Targ implications, I was taught Baratheon and Tarth wed a thousand times in the past, and being Stannis' coz would explain why you sulk in such a sweet and frequent way.”

She had no replies to the satisfaction irradiating from Jaime's perfect features, if not the dourest of the sulks.

Like steel in a forge, so Brienne's uneasiness melted when a knight as tall as her father, but with hair as black as onyx slightly striken of white, lifted Jaime and hugged him fiercely in the middle of the lawn. _A Crakehall_ , the maid realized, noticing the boar painted on the shield hung to the saddle. The knight who was dismounting from an elegant palfrier harnessed in dark gray silk lined with bronze was surely a Marbrand, instead. Brienne had heard the legend about the burning tree of Ashemark from her Septa, in Tarth, far before having the dubious privilege of knowing any Lannister.

“Ser Addam Marbrand and ser Lyle Crakehall, I suppose,” she said, as the two men advanced towards her on the tall, soft grass, blushing idiotically at Jaime's interrogative glance.

“See, Strongboar, our reputation precede us,” the handsomest of the newcomers replied before bowing and taking her calloused hand to kiss her knuckles. “Hope this is a good thing, my lady.” His nut eyes had a spark of gold and amusement.

Ser Crakehall was more formal, yet very courteous, so courteous and slow that he extorted a snort by Jaime.

“Oh, the blissful jealousy of young lovers!”, commented the heir to Ashemark with a grin that put on display a few nice crow's feet round his eyes. “I mean, the lady Brienne is enough young to lend a bit of her youth even to an old man like you, Jaime. I wonder if...”

“You wonder and talk too much, Addam,” Jaime said, retaking Honor's bridles from his squire and cousin, ser Kevan's son, Lancel. “Time to rejoin the column.”

“And waste such a good day? With the Fields in our reach?” The grin on the copper-haired knight grew wider and wilder. “Come on, I'll bet even the Hound is eager to see them again.”

Clegane shrugged, and ser Crakehall looked hesitant.

“What are the fields?”, Brienne asked in a hushed tone to Pod, but Jaime heard her all the same.

“An upland cultivated with lentils,” he answered, smiling a triumphant smile whilst remounting ahorse. “It's really true they teach you nothing in the Stormlands.”

She politely refused ser Lyle's offer of help before climbing back on the saddle with a swift move. “We have fields of lentils, in Tarth, my lord.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, you haven't.”

“It's midday, ser, even if you'll decide to spend the night out and rejoin the column only tomorrow, we'll have to gallop. The small sack of bones, here, rides quite well for a whining toddler, but the lady, she rides like a fucking Dornish”, broke in the Hound, maybe reading something in Jaime's face that Brienne couldn't decipher. “She'll break her neck down the Shard.”

“We'll see,” Jaime replied, and spurred his mount to gallop.

  
  


It turned out that the Shard was naught but a stone hill, so steep, sharp and black to seem a dragonsglass arrowhead. It turned out that, if its ascent had been hard - with Brienne taking care all the time to balance herself properly on the saddle not to make the mare too sore - the descent was impossible, terrifying.

But the sight... In a blink, her heart rose up into her throat and there it lingered, hammering with no pause.

It was something she had no words for. That was the place where Gods had decided to rest and create the colors. From that distance, the fields were flowing rivers of green, lilac, yellow, gold, pink, bright scarlet and white, and the blues... Even the sky was put ashamed by all those variegate nuances of blue, orange and red.

“It's just the bloom of lentil flowers and other wild flowers, wench”, Jaime explained, his hand on her waist to force her dismount.

“Oh, shut up, for once,” the maid begged, too in a state of grace to pay attention to the lion's mockeries or to the fact he took Honey's reins to give them to the Hound. It was so utterly beautiful she had almost forgot her name, or why she was there. Or maybe she remembered all of that, but it seemed irrelevant. As a true lady or as an impostor, it didn't mattered, she was there and she was breathing the smell of sweat and of colors and it was beautiful.

She left Jaime lead her to a prominence from where the view was even better, and she sighed, as a gentle touch on her sleeve reminded her that all good things must end.

“You haven't seen nothing yet, Brienne,” he told her, his eyes stealing the beauty of the green of the fields, “we have still to ride down hill. I ensure you it's worth the effort.”

“I-I've never rode down such a steep...”

“I know, oaf of a Stormlander. That's why you're riding with me.”

“I'm too heavy. And stiff.”

“Trust me, and shut up, for once.”

So she did. Red as a poppy, or even violet, toes curling in her brand-new boots, when he mounted behind her on the saddle and, mostly, when his right hand dug into the flesh of her belly. “I had to, my lady, or you won't have any safe hold, since I have the reins. Don't you mind, every knight in the Westernland is taught how to rush downhill holding the bridles left-handed, since the sword hand needs to be free to hold a blade.”

“Or a mace,” she murmured.

“Why not a fucking ax like a Ironborn, then?”, Jaime hissed, and Brienne felt his disappointment, warm as his breath on her neck. She suspected he was not fond of bows or crossbows, eithers. When he gave a nod, the others started the descend of the Shard, the frantic pace of the horseshoes thundering in her ears. The lads and the squires were left a little behind, Pods keeping both his hands on the reins, the Hound was busy in leading both his magnificent black courser and Honey, but ser Lyle and ser Addam and the men in their service had unsheathed their swords and the blades were swirling in the tired sun, drinking the darkness of the hill. It was like in a song.

“See. It's quite easy, after all,” Jaime's hold tightened and she caught in her breath, “just recall to lean when I lean and follow any of my moves, if you don't want us to romantically die together, wench. We're one knight on a horse, fine?”

“Only one,” she repeated and, strangely, she was no more frightened, only thrilled. Happy, somehow. Absurdly light and relaxed and happy as Honor began to fly, the ground too dangerously near, the sky so dangerously at reach. All the air left her lungs in a war cry and, if her other half was also screaming, she couldn't say. It had been so quick, too quick, and there was only a thing Brienne had clear in her mind as the horse cut into the tall grass. “I want to learn it. You have to teach me how to ride that way,” she panted, her heart and wits probably plummeted somewhere, lost among the golden and blue fields of flowers.

“Sword in hand?”, Jaime chuckled, every chuckles reverberating through leather and skin.

“I'm better with maces or morningstars”, she confessed, and he laughed, and laughed even harder when she dismounted and crumbled into a mattress of soft blossoms. Blessed that man, and blessed those unsteady legs of hers, too long and wobbly.

It was full night, the Shadowcat hiding behind the Moonmaid, high in the starry sky. The voices came at the warm bundle Brienne had become in a amused, yet hushed, tone.

“All I can say is that she detests roses,” a drunken man babbled.

“Not enough. Drink.”

“That's unfair, Addam. How am I supposed to know which flowers she prefers?”

“Tonight kiss your lady less and listen to her a bit more. Now drink. Rules are rules.”

She braced on an elbow, still too drowsy to manage to free herself from the cloak, no, from the cloaks. Someone had wrapped a second cloak on her. _It has surely been Pod,_ the maid thought, finding the skinny, kind page soundly asleep not far from her. At his side, a big dark shadow, who could resemble to an holy man in the act of praying, but who was surely the Hound, snoring so loudly that the noise half covered the cheers and laughs coming from the knights seated around the fire.

“If you haven't seen the lady Brienne swimming, how can you be sure she's good at swim? Addam's right, you must drink.”

“I won't drink, deaf of a boar,” Jaime's voice had the same petulance of a child not wanting to meet his Maester for the lesson. “If the wench can lead a ship to safety through a fucking storm, she can swim and that's all I have to say on the matter. Ask her, if you don't trust me,” he raised on shaking knees, pointing at Brienne, and everybody else jerked on their feet, she didn't know if to greet the fake Lady Lannister or to help the drunken heir to the Rock to stand. “ Off your hands, Lancel. I can still walk all by myself and need no help to have a piss.”

The thoughtful golden-haired squire followed him all the same. She drifted her glance to the fire, having the upland not so many shelters for modesty, as she had learned in the evening when she had to walk miles to find a bit of peace.

“My lady, in the name of all of us, I bid your pardon for having forced your lord husband into a drinking game which is played at every wedding in the Westernlands,” ser Lyle said, offering her to seat of crushed leaves among them.

“No need of apologizing, ser. Even in Tarth we're fond of traditions and some of them involve wine,” Brienne said, blushing but accepting to seat around the fire. Refusing would have been too rude.

“Would you enjoy a taste of mutton and cheese, my lady? A poor meal is better than nothing,” ser Addam asked and his squire, a lad of fourteen destined to inherit the Crag, hurried to bring her something good to eat.

The maid thanked the lean boy and struggled not to devour bread and hard cheese in an only bite. She was starving, in truth, for Jaime's fault. He had insisted that Brienne managed to gallop down a hill all by herself at least twice, and, even the hill he chose was half as steep as the Shard, it took all the remain of the afternoon before he told that it could work but that she was terrible to look upon, allowing her to lie on the grass and close her eyes for a couple of minutes. A couple of minutes that had turned in hours, so she had jumped the dinner.

“Another slice of mutton, my lady?”, the Westerling squire asked, his chestnut eyes smiling.

“Yes, thanks,” she admitted, a bit embarrassed.

“Even my sister Jeyne loves eating, my lady,” the boy said in a breath, the ghost of a moustache trembling on his upper lip in the firelit, “and she's so kind and lovely and loyal. She would be so grateful to her ladyship if she could join your service, at Casterly Rock.”

“I'd like to meet her,” Brienne replied, remembering only then that she was just playing the lady Lannister. It saddened her a bit.

“If the lady wishes to meet your sister, Raynald, then you should write to the Crag and ask Lord Westerling's permission to let her come to the Rock,” Jaime broke in, red cheeked and imperturbably handsome, as ever. You could bet he would have been charming even if covered with dirt or half dead. The lion stopped the young squire's thanks with a wave of his hand, then stretched out that same hand to invite her raising. “Come, my lady, I'm tired of stupid games and I want to sleep.”

She followed his invitation, uncertain.

“Gods, all I wanted was my cloak back”, Jaime whispered in her ear, as he laid beside her. He smelled of horse, sweat and wine, the hateful drunkard who should have kept his cloak for himself since she had never asked for it, “but, if you do insist, wench, we can share it, for tonight.”

The maid rolled to face him and precise she had never insisted or thought such a thing, but he had already closed his eyes. “Like one only knight. Sweet dreams, Brienne.”

“Goodnight, Jaime”, she muttered, deciding it wasn't worth to bother the dazed man's sleep for a meaningless detail, like his arm closing her into a golden cage of muscles and leather. He would have pull it off, sooner and later, and it wasn't bothering her too much, in the end. It stirred something in her, something Septa Roelle would call evil, but she could manage, distracting herself a bit. Thinking back to the Fields, for instance, to the forget-me-nots, the snapdragons, the poppies and the primroses, the tiny wild orchids, the starflowers and the grass, which was soft, and green.

Such a gorgeous, flashing, unpredictable green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Westernman groom has to subdue to a traditional game. His friends ask him about the bride (her tastes, her family, whatever) and if he doesn't know the answer he has to drink. Since the game has been invented by Lann the Clever himself, no one can escape it, not even a Lion of the Rock, it is known.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot, the picture is taken from Castelluccio di Norcia, Umbria, Italy, and yes, those are really fields of lentils!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, with a bit of politics and finally CASTERLY ROCK. 
> 
> Warning: facts are NOT in chronological order, there's a little flash forward to 297, then back again in 296, it's quite all displayed in Casterly Rock/Lannisport except for the memory of something happened in KL. I hope it won't too complicated (Jaime's POV doesn't help, argh). 
> 
> Warning n. 2: angst is coming (sorry, sorry, sorry).

Two-hundred-ninety-seven years had passed from the day the Lannisters had bend their knees to three purple-eyed conquerors, but now the dragons were extinct and the Rock glowed, in light, in endless glory.

Thousands torches were lighted up at the same time, in a crescendo of sparks and fires, when the the old boat, symbolizing the dying year, was put to flames in the waters before Lannisport and Jaime gave the signal to all the garrison, snatching his Valyrian steel blade in an offer to the far, shimmering moon. The sword seemed have a life of her own, roaring black and crimson in the initial darkness, becoming the ideal center of all lights. From the Sunset Sea, the magnificent rock lion shielding the Westerlands must seem on the verge to roar and roast his enemies, like a dragon of times of old.

Unbidden, Jaime's thoughts went to his brother, now traveling to the fucking North to escort to the Wall the heir to Riverrun, stripped of titles and freedom since he had dared to violate the Silence House where his sister Lysa had been confined. Truth must have been hard to listen for the young trout, once in the black cells. Jaime couldn't help but shiver - a boulder falling on a ship causes lesser damages than truth and, in the smoke of the many burning torches, the world was suddenly so undefined and yet so clear. Like the face of the Stranger, often hidden behind the mask of a pretty, familiar face.

A shiver, again, and Jaime considered if it was wiser to get inside, like an old man. He sheathed the sword, slowly, with nought but a little hope about the lady Stark being smarter than her siblings, since she had already expressed harsh words against the Iron Throne decision to name as Lady Paramount of the Trident the Lady Shella Whent, who was surely better suited for the task then her or one of her wolf pups.

A very little hope, indeed. Tyrion and his wicked tongue had been surely sent North with the only purpose of inflaming Catelyn Tully Stark's resentment and endanger the Riverrun succession, now that lord Tully was sick and dying, heartbroken. Not that Jaime gave a fig of the fucking Riverlands, but Tyrion... Tyrion was his only brother and he was supposed to be ruling the Rock and let Jaime be where he had sworn to be.

The moon looked down at the oathbreaker and he couldn't stand her disapproving glance for more than a few moments, before coming back to the crowded hall in search of a bit of warmth.

“Jaime, darling.” Aunt Genna grabbed gently his arm just before the huge hearth where once the wench had hidden the shield she had secretly bought from a Lannisport armorer. Or had it been the hearth at the opposite side of the hall? He didn't remember, Brienne was right about it, there were too many hearths, too many halls, a gorgeous waste of beauty in gold and crimson. “She's strong, darling, you'll see. Let's time pass, and heal. One day, all of this will look just an evil dream, believe me.”

“An evil dream, yes.” Jaime smiled, and kissed his aunt on one cheek, his throat too closed to speak further, then he lingered before the flames, feigning attention to Devan and Lucion's chatter, sipping words and splinters along with the best vintage the Arbor could offer. He had no choice, or chance, if not to wait, look at the sky and wait - a very little hope was better then the hole opening in his chest every time he tried to rest in an empty, gelid bed.

***

The pleasant warmth wrapping Jaime was the first sign there was something different in the morning which was already knocking at the shutters of their bedroom. Then came a smell, a smell that he was used to know, but this time it wasn't simply caressing Jaime, it was on him, on his chest, in his nostrils, in his veins, and so was the warmth. Filling him.

A noise obliged him to peek open an eye, like a cat on the hunt. A golden squirrel named Tyrek was blowing with a serving girl on the hesitant flames of the fireplace, a shyer squirrel named Pod was opening with his meager arms the heavy curtains of crimson taffeta and then the studders, freeing a ray of light which enlivened the wench's pale hair, loose on her shoulder blades, and ended right on the only ring adorning Jaime's hand. He payed no more attention to the pages' quick movements, setting his mind on the freckled trouble represented by Brienne of Tarth, immediately yielding to the evidence. There was no safe way for a tactical retreat, since somehow they were in a tangle of arms and legs, with her body shielding his and hands in places where they shouldn't have been, and that was enough weird, not wanting to consider the absurdity he didn't found it so terrible, in the end. She wasn't either that tall and heavy, her snoring being so light that it didn't worry the fair hairs on Jaime's chest.

He chuckled, as the door closed, letting them finally alone. The sleeping beauty made out a deeper breath, but nothing else, her eyelids still like the placid cave lake where Jaime and Addam one day pretended of having found the mirror shield of the most famous dragonslayer. Ser Weatherspoon's daughter, Melara and others had quickly trusted them but the prank had ended far too soon, with both of the children obliged to climb on a tree to give aunt Genna the time to cool down.

With his lips curving in an exaggerated smile, Jaime managed to free a hand from underneath the cotton shirt covering the small of her back, provoking no appreciable reactions. She persisted to sleep soundly and mistake him as her pillow and, in all the while, the fire was cracking merrily, the bath water was beginning to boil and hiss in the pots, a mockingbird was greeting the sun from one of the myrtles the stubbornest of maids had insisted to plant in the little garden outside the huge glass door. It was all so ironically romantic, but Jaime needed to piss.

He stroked her hair, but Brienne sighed and stretched lazily, tickling his chin, without awakening. He then started playing with her lashes, which were the longest he had ever seen but one could notice it only from very very close, because they were almost albino white, practically invisible. It worked. She half-lifted, blinking in the morning light, her weight concentrating on her palms and both of the palms were on Jaime's damn ribcage.

“Fuck, Brienne, I'd like to breath”, Jaime welcomed the wench, enjoying the tiny splotches bubbling from her collarbone like sprinkles of rose pepper and cinnamon. “If it please my lady, obviously.”

She jerked forward, kicking off the sheets to get the faster on her confused feet. Annoyed by the sudden coolness around him, Jaime reached her near the table, adjusting a bit the crotch of the short cotton breeches he used now as smallclothes, imitating his bride's odd - but practical – habits.

“Tell me, wench,” he teased her, taking a green apple from a massive gold basket which seemed heavier than Pod and Peck put together, “trying to suffocate an innocent man asleep is something all honorable maidens of Tarth do or it's something special my fair lady has invented to make me feel particularly loved?”

She crossed her arms, instead of hiding behind the ebony and ivory screen as she would have done in the first moons of their three years conviction. “Ask yourself, my lord, since it was you to...”, she stopped, all her resoluteness melting like ice in a glass of lemonwater.

“To?”, he insisted, the apple juice invading his mouth, fresh and slightly tarty.

“To imprison me with those filthy tentacles of yours,” she spat, not drifting her glance away. “I just wanted to stop it, the evil dream, I mean.”

“Oh, my sweetheart had an evil dream and sough comfort in my arms.” He circled around the table to grab the bell pull and the grin on his face faded, as he noticed how the muscles on her back had stiffened. “Teeth-rotting, yet there's something wrong in your reconstruction, I'd say. I'm a lot of things, but not a fucking wetnurse and I don't recall anything of it.”

She twisted to face him, her voice a breath under a murmur, oddly softer than what Jaime would have guessed it. “You don't remember because you never woke up. It was you to dream and cry, not me.”

“Impossible,” he replied triumphant, throwing half of the too tarty apple into the fire under the disapproving eyes of the wench. “Lions never cry, don't you know?”

She stepped forward him, then scowled and rushed to put on a dressing gown, as the door opened to let Cerenna and Myrielle Lannister advance, slender and blond, in matching gowns of gray velvet lined with violet and scarlet satin, followed by ser Clifton's red-haired daughters and a small crowd of pages and serving girls, all dressed more properly than the current Lady Lannister.

Jaime was waiting the Peckledon boy to bring him the cream doublet slashed in gold and the dark breeches he had chosen to meet the prideful Lord Stackspear, when Brienne, still barefoot, pressed a hand on his forearm. “Jaime, believe me,” she whispered in his ear, watching nervously at her back, where Cerenna was instructing a servant about how to fill perfectly the tub for the lady's bath. “These dreams of yours are not... normal. You shake, cry, and repeat those names...”

Jaime's jaw clenched. “Nonsense.” He clapped his hands, and the pages bowed and the girls curtseyed, in a quiet wait, all but Myrielle who was twice as brazen as her older brother Devan. “Cousin”, he addressed her, gaining a grin with pimples as an answer, “please, get quick with that bath, the lady Brienne is waited in Lannisport in the mid-morning where she'll attend, in my place, the Harbor Court before attending, as usual, the Women Court with the lady Frey.” The Clifton twins made out a giggle of surprise, but Brienne knew the arrangement from days so she practically ignored his words.

“Please, Jaime."

He rolled his eyes and left, not wanting to hear more of her bullshit: he had a quarrel to set among three lesser Houses before it became a feud, half the court coming to Casterly Rock in a fortnight and the wench revealed herself, as usual, the worst pain in his ass - Jaime wished Tyrion the best, and soon, for all the good his brother had done to him.

***

Maester Creylen let his honey cake fall right on the hand or King Tommen, as depicted in the glazed mosaic floor, when the shield crashed from the chimney right into the fire, sending sparks in all directions and scaring the hell out of ser Rolph Spicer. The craven had almost pissed on his lime velvet breeches finely embroidered with cloth-of-silver and that was curious for a man who had been so bold, just a few instants before the accident, to allude to the fact the young Jeyne Westerling was a suitable option for Willelm, or even for Lancel Lannister.

Luckily, aunt Genna was too busy in contending cakes with the Maester whilst ser Kevan wasn't there to listen to the ambitious son of a wood witch, since he was traveling blessedly slow on the Goldroad, with the prince Tommen, the princess Myrcella, the Queen and all her fucking followers, included the damn Dornish who had replaced Jaime in the Kingsguard. Ironically, ser Gerold was a Dayne, but not a Dayne of Starfall, and, funnily enough, they say he had dark purple eyes, like the late prince Rhaegar.

Fucking purple eyes - moons had passed since Jaime had left King's Landing but the memory still stung.

“You're a fool, naught but a golden fool if it's really true you haven't still deflowered that freckled cow,” Cersei had stated, a cold scorn crawling in her eyes. She was wearing jade silks to match them, a dress he had never seen before, and the emerald pinned where the curve of her breasts gorgeously met was as big as a pigeon's egg. “Gods, if you're stupid, Jaime. Can't you see it's Tyrion manipulating you? Father will soon find out that absurd plan of yours and he'll make you swallow it and impregnate the Tarth beauty.” She emptied the space between them, moving her hands in the way Jaime preferred, one through his hair, one on the bulge on his pants. It was hot but weird, as if a century had passed since the last time they had touched.

“Cersei, let the girl in peace, she has done nothing to you,” Jaime sighed in her mouth, eager to kiss her and fuck her senseless on the desk of her solar, “I'll repeat it a hundred time if necessary, I can't betray you.”

Her fingers stopped trafficking with the lace of his breeches. “You're not listening.” She got rid of his embrace, wiping palms on the broquade, where a thousand tiny studs of gold were sewn together to shape a crowned lion. “You have to put a little monster in the monster's belly to please Father, and, then, you know, a pregnant woman is something delicate even when she's big and tall, the Rock has too many stairs and dangerous caves. Accidents happen, sadly.”

The woman Jaime had believed to know gifted him of the most innocent of the smiles, toying with long curls that have the same color of his. She was utterly splendid, a beautiful stranger.

“You want me to make love to a gal of barely sixteen, only to get rid of her and of my own child at the first opportunity?”

Cersei crossed her brows and her arms. “I got rid of Robert's son, for you.”

“You did it because you hate Robert, not for me. I never asked it to you.” It was the truth, Jaime had obeyed her and brought a woman who knew of such things, but he had never asked her, nor would ever ask her, to do it. That was part of her personal war against Robert and the fact she was using it against him was something new, something shocking. _Not too shocking, not so new,_ cackled a imp from nowhere.

“I see, now, how strong is your love to me,” Cersei hissed, seeming on the verge to split on his face. “Strong as the pale worm sleeping in your breeches. Is that sow sturdy enough to rise you all night long, isn't she? Enjoy her and have a bunch of blue-eyed pigs with her, but don't come weeping on my shoulder if a sudden illness will take them all to an early grave.”

“Cersei, I won't allow you threatening...”

“Threatening?” Cersei laughed, her face glowing with the same triumphant shine she had had in Eel Alley when she had parted from him, dressed like a wench, her dumb twin's promise in one of the pocket of the roughspun gown. “A true Queen doesn't threaten, she does act and you should know me well enough.”

“Well enough to know you're no true Queen.” She slapped him, twice, soundly. He felt no hurt, only a dead calm rage, seeping into his words. “I apologize, Your Grace, probably I only believed to know you.”

“Yes, you never knew me,” she screamed as Jaime bowed, and started striding towards the door. “You don't even know which is my favorite eye-color”, her voice was so altered to be heard even in the corridors and in the yards of the Red Keep, but it unmoved him. “Not green, but purple!” Jaime waved a hand in the direction of a stunned Ser Barrystan, while crossing a long and wide passage, decorated with hunting tapestries. “Purple!” Cersei was still shouting into the air, and, confusingly, it hurt less than it should have hurt.

Jaime snorted, stepping to the left to allow a frantic servant to put the oaken shield to safety. It was a lovely shield, indeed, with a sunset and an oak freshly painted on it, reminding him something familiar, something good.

“I'm sorry, so sorry”, the wench stormed in the hall, her thick head a mess of flaxen strands, unyielding to the leather ribbon she used when she sparred with ser Benedict Broom. Soon Daven's sisters, the young Lydden, Jeyne Westerling and the Clifton twins followed her, looking like seven little ducklings in lovely pastel dresses. “Has anyone got hurt? Oh, I'm so desolated. It's all my fault.”

“Merit, my sweet niece,” said aunt Genna, pulling the tall girl into her chubby arms to squeeze her into a hug. “A Lannister lady has no faults of flaws, it is known.”

“It is known,” broke in lady Westerling, still handsome and slender in her light blue gown adorned with the embroidery of a chain of shells, notwithstanding the spurts of gray in her hair. “We appreciate a lot your joke, my lady. It was so fun my brother is still thrilled.”

The lady Genna glared at him, and Jaime spared the pale Spicer a good deal of laughs. He didn't spare a smirk to the wench, instead, as soon as she regained her freedom and noticed him.

“You shouldn't be here!”, she groaned, a prairie of red and pink splotches crawling up her neck.

With a glimpse at his back, Jaime realized the ducklings were trying to hide the shield, now leaned on a wall, with their ample silk gowns. The little, always caring, Jeyne Westerling had even forgot to greet her mother and her uncle, curiously.

“See, auntie, how cruelly my lady treats me,” he said, exaggerating a sigh, “breaking my heart in a million pieces.”

One of the Clifton twins - which one Jaime couldn't say, they were both so nice and plump and similar to their mother, the good and loyal Jeyne Fairman - looked at him as if he was the Warrior made flesh, but the wench stared at him, mute, as if she was willing to drown herself in the cave pool she often used to take a swim. Or if she was willing to strangle her beloved husband, maybe.

Just in order to be sure about Brienne's will, Jaime stepped in her direction, pretending to brush away a particularly mulish lock from her homely face. “Confess wench”, he murmured her, “why have you stolen a shield for me?”

Her cheeks became of the same color of aunt Genna's bodice, “I _bought_ it, in Lannisport, the day they brought a pig to trial.” Jaime smiled, at the though the piglet and his swineherd, an orphan, were both safe in the Rock household now, even if probably they were both guilty of having spoiled an entire plant of crabapples owned by a farmer, amply compensate of the damage by one of Brienne's precious rings. “I was coming back from the Harbor Court with ser Addam, ser Cleos, ser Lyonel, ser...”

“I recall my cousins' names, thank you, my lady,” he chiseled a kiss on her high forehead, sincerely grateful that the wench dealt so frequently in his place with the Freys or with all the Lannisters, Lannetts, Lantells and Lannys of Lannisport , “and I thank you for having just confirmed you got a shield for _me_.”

Her face twisted so funnily confused that a laugh burst out of Jaime's lips, beyond his possibilities to gentle it. The wench could make such a fool of herself, sometimes.

***

“So, the King is quite upset with the Starks, by now, but you know how the man is fond of his wolf brother. We'll see.” Ser Kevan paused, and locked his green eyes into his. “Coming to important things, any good news for your Father and your old uncle?”

Jaime nodded, the grin was unmovable from his face - he was quite flying like the Winged Knight of the legends while balancing the astonishingly light sword in his hands. Valyrian steel, in his fingers, and only thanks to Brienne and to the Valyrian Steel dagger the Evenstar has send to King's Landing along with other useless stuff like the stone egg that a smiling Tommen had returned to a smiling wench. For an instant, Jaime wondered where his father had found the further steel needed for such a long blade, but probably he had simply bought another dagger or two, and here she was.

Dark, with long crimson ripples shining like the Lannister bloody arms.

Jaime was so enthralled, that he barely perceived the joyful comments of his uncle. He felt Devan's pats, though, because they hit hard and rough on his back, as if his cousin were a bear and not a lion, and he had to swift away the sharp sword not to cut in two aunt Dorna as she rushed to kiss him on both cheeks, squeaking as the happy child she was. “That's why Brienne has bought the shield and asked for it to be repainted with the arms of ser Duncan the Tall, she wished you, Jaime, to hold it before passing it to your son”, the pious woman said, joining her hand in a silent prayer, clearly strongly mistaken.

“I know this Tarth girl would have filled the Rock with bliss,” proclaimed then uncle Kevan, after a rib-breaking hug, which made Jaime recall a hard spear sparring with uncle Tygett. “I'm so proud of you, Jaime, and forgive me if I leave, but I can't wait to write Tywin about the child. Let's hope he'll be as wise and might as his grand-father.”

“Let's hope in twins!”, Devan chuckled when uncle Kevan was already disappearing beyond the gilded door.

For a certainty, Addam, Lyle and all the people out of Jaime's solar had heard Devan's words, and, with the lady Dorna fleeing from the room an instant after her husband, the news would spread to the Rock till Lannisport before dusk.

 _Charming_ , Jaime thought, taking a sip of wine from the cup that Lancel had dutifully filled with something very strong. He almost choked on it, then he realized it was his left hand's fault. He was able not even to drink properly with his left hand, and in the right he still hold an enchanting Valyrian steel sword. The day was turning odd, but with a gift like that it couldn't be totally a mess - he had only to find the wench, before aunt Genna did.

The shock was, with no doubts, a shock. Jaime realized soon he wasn't used to get shocked, the way he wasn't used to see aunt Genna weeping of joy on a tall chair. The wench was far from being so tearful - shocked, she was shocked, her too, surrounded of too many delicate hands caressing her back and her belly, whilst preparing her for the lovely banquet in honor of the arrival of the Queen and the princelings. With dread, the lucky father-to-be saw an obsequious lady Sybell Westerling paint of a terrible red the wench's lips, with the result to make them see even more swollen, and soft, and...

Jaime cleared his throat, and the highborn women and the serving girls flew away with the same excitement of a flock of chirping sparrows. Only then Brienne raised her eyes upon him, and the knight noticed they had used a sort of black powder to enhance them. How weird and useless, on such a wench. He took a cloth and damped it in a basin of water, before starting to wipe away that absurdities.

She grasped angrily his hand, forcing him to stop. “I told them there's no mask that can hide... _this_.” The wench twirled in a soft swish of azure satin and gave him the back, to look herself in the mirror, wiping away the black and the red with a furious fervor.

“Gentler, wench, or you'll tear off your skin.”

She shrugged, staring at him warily from the mirror. “Why? Why you told them I'm expecting a child, and without even warning me...”, she paused, torturing the dirty cloth in hands marked by swordplay, “I thought we had reached a sort of truce, I do my best, I receive the ladies, I take your place at the Courts even if it's hard, I even listen quietly to all your aunt's recommendations about...”

“Which recommendations, by grace?”

She paled. She reddened. “Forget about it.” She was as still as a gargoyle, now, and knowing aunt Genna's inclination to stick her nose in very private stuff, Jaime had quite the certainty to know why the wench had been lately so cautious and distant when he reached her abed. Even more grunting and annoying than usual, a part the _evil dream_ morning.

“Brienne,” he said, and her eyes shone, “it has been a misunderstanding. I apologize.” She kept on frowning but her eyes were really sapphire that evening. Probably it was the dress, the blue silk he had chosen, unwisely. “Don't need to worry, wench, we're simply going to join our guests for the feast, accept all their jokes and felicitations, and look a bit sad when your moonblood will arrive.”

“Lies”, she closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her stomach as if she was suddenly nauseated. “Always lies.”

 _And you're such a bad liar, my lady_ , Jaime thought, a lump forming at his throat.

Cersei and her court of schemers were waiting for them and the clumsy girl before him was decisively too concerned, and nervous. He needed a trick.

Or a sword, for a sword wench.

Gingerly, he unsheathed the Valyrian steel blade from its gilded scabbard and she immediately reacted, proving to have a good instinct and a better hearing. She scrambled on her feet, her eyes wide as the moon and the sun - and from how her hand quivered in his as he lead it to the lion-shaped hilt of the sword, Jaime knew she was his, totally his, now.

One last spin, a peck on aunt Darlessa's knuckles, and Jaime came back to the honor place on the dais, glad to see Myrcella was still between the wench and ser Arys, entertaining them both, probably, since the white cloak was almost as demure as the Tarth mule.

“ _I loved a maid as fair as summer with sunlight in her hair”,_ the singer started, followed by the flautists and the other musicians, and the Queen joined the dance holding merrily the arm of ser Gerold Dayne, her head crowned by a large braid tied in a net of blinding cloth-of-gold and rubies. The other couples swirling on the floor seemed to fade, somehow, no matter how young and lovely to look upon were Cerenna or the little Westerling in company of Lyle and Addam.

Feeling observed, Jaime turned to meet ser Arys' glance and, then, the wench's. She was pale, a gloom in her eyes. “I love a maid as white as winter”, the Lannister knight sang softly along with Whitesmile Wat, teasing the hem of Brienne's long sleeve. “A dance, my lady?”

She paled even more. “Don't feel like dancing.”

 _Nor eating_ , Jaime thought, noticing the food the wench had left untouched. “A walk, instead?”, he proposed. Some fresh air and a couple of jokes under the moon, to give a bit of color back to those ungrateful cheeks of her.

“If princess Myrcella would like enjoying the sea view from the rock gardens...”, the wench replied, and the golden-haired child too heavily dressed jumped on her feet, anticipating the pleasure of getting rid of all those lights and people.

“The princess and the prince will surely grow happyly, in the lady Brienne's care”, ser Arys commented as the giant girl and the mini-lady left the banqueting hall, hand in hand. Jaime smiled, his gaze back on the dancers, not managing to contain a certain concern, as if there was something he couldn't pick up. The lady Lanna Jast laughed as Devan lifted her at the last trembling note of the song, uncle Kevan, pink-cheeked like a maiden, lead his wife back to their seats and so did ser Stafford with the lady Myranda, but almost all of the couples decided to wait for the next ballad - all the couples, except the fairest one.

The breeze was mild but increasing, the night as movable as a whore's face. He found them in the spot he and Cersei used to hide, when he occasionally came back from Crakehall.

“You might have been more prudent, sister,” Jaime said, and the lovers broke the embrace in a panicked haste.

“Leave us, ser Gerold,” the Queen ordered but the white cloak hesitated, uncertain if unsheathing his blade. For all Jaime had heard, the knight of High Hermitage had the reputation of a skilled warrior, weaned on venom as the Red Vyper. But Jaime fucking Lannister was worth ten damn Oberyn Martell, so he waited, a cold sneer on his face, the Valyrian steel in the scabbard growing thirsty of blood.

“Leave us,” Cersei repeated with a strangled voice and, sadly, the shadow of a Dayne obeyed. “So, what do want, Jaime? Jealous of what you've lost?”, the foolish woman added, as soon as the silver-haired snake had vanished. She showed a prideful, pouty smile, but her fingers didn't stop fidgeting with a necklace which was the equivalent in gems of two dozens knights heavily equipped, mounts included.

“No,” Jaime said, utmost surprised by the naturalness of his reply. Strangely, the thing let him more bored than upset. “Just keep your filth far from the Rock.”

“The Rock is mine, my beloved _younger_ brother.”

“Father's still alive, sweet sister, and it seems your devoted regal husband has restored my full rights of heir. Then there's Tyrion, like it or not,” Jaime had to recall, enjoying the hate flooding from any pore of Cersei's perfect skin. “Find an excuse, you're expert in it. You leave the Rock in the morrow. The children stay, as Father has already established, and, just to be clear, you're not welcome to visit them.”

A cloud obscured the moon, as Cersei looked at him for a last a time, wordless, before twisting on her lavish slippers. Jaime reached a place from where he could see the ink surface of the sea. From very far, below, came the sound of the waves, the scream of the mermaids almost covering the muffled cry of a child. Of his child.

Frantic, he moved past the bushes of blueberries, and Myrcella's sobs became even more anguished and dreadful to hear as the child buried her face on Brienne's breast, seeking refuge from him. “Hush, my little one, hush,” the maid was murmuring, white as a the moon glow on her hair, “it's not what it appears it to be. You have nothing to do with it.”

Her blue eyes were shouting the exact opposite. She knew. They both knew, but Myrcella was still Cersei's own blood, so she was safe - she ought to be safe, at least – the wench instead... The Valyrian steel shone dark as it had drank the night itself as it swished out of the scabbard.

The hinges screeched under the weight of Brienne's blows, but her words didn't pass through the wooden barrier and the door key was deeply plowed in Jaime's pocket.

“Stay here, lad, well hidden, and come to call me whoever may try to enter.” Pod gaped at the tall knight, eyes as big as doubt. “It's for the lady's own safety,” Jaime cut, and the boy nodded, vigorously. Good lad.

  
  


It didn't took too much time. Talking with Myrcella had been painful, but also liberating, and the child was so exhausted she had yielded soon to sleep, her curls spreading, beautifully thick and soft, on the damp pillow. Putting his most loyal men in the guard of the Queen and of her mate had been far easier, since nor Strongboar nor Devan's father, ser Stafford, were used to question his orders.

As he returned to the apartment he shared with the wench, Jaime was pleased to see the Payne page hadn't moved from his place, as a valiant skinny footman. The door looked as solid and still as betrayal - hopefully the wench had surrendered to sleep, her too.

“Brienne,” he called her, quietly, reassuring, finding hard to shift fully open the door, a one-piece of heart-tree, carved and gilded. There was an obstacle, something heavy and hard, like a stone egg, once white and gold and intact, now cracked. Jaime stared at it, astonished, explaining to himself the smell of blood as a blunder of his tired senses, because he had still the key in his stiff fingers and he was the only one in all the castle to have the damn key of the chamber. “Brienne”, he almost cried, on his knees, cradling the wench in his arms, trying to clean the dried blood at the corners of her nose and mouth. It wasn't that much blood, if he ignored the stain that was widening on the azure silk, at the height of her thighs.

  
  


Clutching the bony hands to his black robe, the Maester stood silent, too afraid to speak, whilst his leeches agonized in a silver basin, their body writhing in a soundless curse to the God of pain. Brienne's nails pressed lightly in Jaime's palm, her body shifted imperceptibly under the sheet, and it felt like another silent scream.

“The lady has been poisoned,” the crow finally broke out. “By someone who wanted us to believe to a misfortune, to a miscarriage.”

“Tell us something we don't know, ” ser Kevan hissed, from the bed's side.

“A poison which runs in the veins and causes the bleeding. A poison that can be thickened with sorcery to modify and delay the effects. Manticore venom.”

Silence filled the chamber and Jaime's heart. Manticore venom let no chance. Still, he had to ask.

“Is there any antidote?”, a steel voice asked in his place. It came from Jaime's mouth, though.

The Maester swallowed, looking older than he was. “Manticores fear only other manticores. With the right amount of venom from a living manticore, maybe...”

“What are you waiting for, then?”

Jaime felt the pressure of his uncle's hand on his shoulder. If he wouldn't be afraid of bothering Brienne, he would have yanked it off crudely - he needed no commiseration, he needed a thrice damned manticore and a true healer, not that gray-bearded monkey burdened by a lot of useless chains. “There's no such a dangerous creature in the Rock, Jaime. Your father wouldn't admit it.”

The Kingslayer hardly contained a laugh. _Look at her_ , his lungs shouted whilst his lips never moved. _The Rock is full of dangerous creatures, and I'm probably the deadliest of all them._ He concentrated on Brienne's breath, too slow, but regular, now that they had made her drink some sweetmilk to induce a sort of lethargy from which she would never come back if he didn't think, and quickly, but he was not good in thinking and her voice echoed in his mind like a thunder, even if it had been barely a whisper. “ _Why you did this to me? I'd never... harm... the children... or you”,_ Brienne went on accusing, her eyes glassy, her brow smooth and cold under his lips. Jaime bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted his own blood, and regained lucidity. It had no sense to brood about that.

“Now, ponder carefully before answering, Maester Creylen, if you don't wish to learn how to fly,” Jaime finally said. “Which is the nearest place Iwhere can find a manticore?”

Devan's fist fell loudly on the table, in the background, when the man spat a name. “Too far, and they do hate us”, Jaime heard the fool sighing, but no destination was really far if you had enough time to reach it. Time was all he needed. The venon must be slowed down, it could be slowed down, the Maester had said, and Jaime knew by who.

“Addam, I need a ship, ready to leave before dawn.” A tall shadows detached himself from the wall as soon as the words left his mouth. “You'll escort the lady, carrying my letter on your own body, bringing with you Strongboar, the Maester and a cage of crow. Two cages. Any question? No, good.” He waited until the knight left the room, aimed to the harbor. “Lad, come here.” The child rushed, his triangular face dirty with tears and snot. “Bring me ilk and quill and reach ser Marbrand, but before that, settle down. I don't want a filthy brat as my lady's page and food taster.”

“I will never leave the lady, never,” the boy promised, and Jaime found himself absurdly relieved by the honesty in his glance.

“Clegane.” Another shadow came into the light of the candle holders, and it was quite an appalling figure, holding that monstrous helm with fingers as hard as dragonbone. “I want you to go, too.”

“As it pleases my lord,” The Hound growled, if ironical or not, Jaime couldn't say. Not that it had relevance. The dog could bark at will as long as he obeyed and kept his back well far from the point of a lovely spear.

“Before that, you have to summon a person,” Jaime precised. “A lady, and nobody has to see you. Ser Devan Lannister will assist you, if needed.”

“I'm afraid that's not a task fit for a knight, my lord,” the Hound snorted, and the candles shivered in the darkness at his passage. Maybe the imposing warrior wasn't that wrong.

  
  


The lady adjusted her costly dress with long, elegant fingers, and Jaime had to admit she was still graceful enough to catch into the eye. Even her voice was a pleasant one, velvety. “I don't know if can recall the few things I've learned from my unfortunate lady mother, but I swear on my children I'll do anything in my power to attenuate and slow down the venom's effect,” she said and seemed sincere.

“I owe you a debt, my lady,” Jaime replied, noticing the spark of greed in his interlocutor's black eyes.

“The lady Lannister's favor for my sweet Jeyne is more than I could ever have hoped for her and my family,” the lady of the Crag proclaimed, choosing the words, one by one. She was right, however, Brienne liked the Westerling girl and that was a valid reason for Jaime to be merciful.

“I thank you, lady Westerling,” he smiled. “Now, tell me, how you did it? Was it in the lip balm? Or the venom was somewhere else?”

The lady startled, but not as suddenly as uncle Kevan or Devan. The Hound stepped closer, undisturbed.

“I- I don't understand, my lord,” the daughter of Maggy the Frog complained, spying at Clegane's formidable hands, at the mask of scars and exposed bones covering the only visible side of his face.

“Try to keep concentrate, my lady. The lives of your children depend on it.”

“You said you were in debt...”

“I'll be in debt, and your children will be consequently safe, when the lady Brienne will recover.”

She understood. “Raynald and Jeyne did nothing, I swear it. Eleyna is eleven, Rollam is only six, he needs a mother.”

“A mother, not a monster. Your husband?”

Her hands trembled, her smirk was eloquent enough, “Gawen has more honor than sense.”

“Your brother?”

The woman kept a dignified silence, and Devan shared a meaningful look with Ser Kevan. Rolph Spicer was doomed to a rapid, very painful death and Jaime hadn't even to worry about it.

“Well, my lady, we don't have now the time for significantly enjoying each other company. We'll have this pleasure in the worst of the seven hells, one day, not too far.”

“It was in the lip balm,” the woman raised her chin, composed. “No harm was meant for you, ser, since you never kiss your lady on the lips, not in public occasions, at least.”

“Why?”

“Jeyne. She has really grown fond of the lady Brienne, so, if something sad occurred to the lady, her tears would be plausible. And she's pretty, kind, caring, loyal, and very highborn, all an inconsolable widow may ever desire, for a night or two or who knows. Once pregnant, and I've the power to ensure it, would ever the lord Tywin give up to a heir for his Rock?” The chocked, disgusted sound made by uncle Kevan was the only answer the witch deserved. She lost part of her sureness. “I have a question, ser,” she pleaded, her voice no more steady.

“Conceded.”

“If I were not enough skilled to... if I try, try hard and harder, but I fail and the lady...”, the woman couldn't end, a violent shiver suddenly making her difficult even to breath normally.

Jaime looked at her, for a long time. He had to say the words, unfortunately. “Fail, and instead of a having the mercy of a quick death, you'll die in the cruelest and slowest way our good Hound will find out expressly for you. But not before having seen with your own eyes what I'll do at the Crag. Believe lord Tywin's son if not the Kingslayer: no song will be sing about the Westerlings because no singer or man will have the guts of even think of the sort I'll reserve them.”

A candle died, Devan caught in his breath, uncle Kevan and Sandor Clegane didn't move an inch. Even the wench was quiet, now, so quiet and unknowing, paler than the sheet wrapping her as a shroud. She would never agree with him, she would have fought for the kin of the woman that had hurt her. _It's part of her strength, because she's strong, very strong and unyielding_ , Jaime repeated to himself, later, looking at the ship suddenly so small, nought but a nut shell rolling on the waves. _And she's young, and she loves traveling by sea. Yes, it's just a travel, Brienne, and I'll come and get you soon. Just be a good wench and hold on._

_Hold on._

  
  


Dawn was tinging the sky with a rose shade. Someone had tidied up their bedroom, replacing the blooded sheets with clean, good smelling ones. Her scent still lingered in the air, weak, a shadow of her, as if she had been only a shadow, but her damn dragon egg was still there, someone had cleaned it and put it on the desk where she wrote to her father – white and whipped with gold and crimson, where the deep crack had drank the wench's blood. Jaime touched it. It was warm, like the body of a girl who used to curl at his side, stealing his blanket and his patience, night after night.

No more. She was gone.

Jaime tossed the evil egg into the creaking flames of the hearth, and left hastily the room, ordering the door to be closed and sealed with such a roaring rage that the servants surely thought him crazy, and probably they were right. Two-hundred-ninety-six years after the conquest, ser Jaime Lannister was losing his mind.

***

A "traditional" Manticore vs House Reyne Coat of Arms 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's Brienne?  
> Next chapter in a few days, it's a promise.
> 
> PS: ASOIAF Manticores are quite similar to scorpions, but, in writing this part of the fic, I couldn't but recall the “classical” description of them like wonderful and powerful creatures with the body of a lion, a human head and a long, venomous tail (a scorpion tail or a tail covered by porcupine-like spines, always filled with a deadly venom) and, then, I found out the beautiful/disquieting drawing I posted at the end of the chapter ____a Reyne Manticore!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back in 297 and here's (again) Jaime's POV, because the poor man needs a break and what's better than a relaxing spa in the south?

Leaving Sunspear, Jaime noticed that its walls weren't well built, nor well defended. Too many hovels crawling on the old, crumbling bricks and less guards than you would expect on patrol, apparently not adequately disciplined.

 _The labyrinth created by the Shadow City, the mountains and the desert are sufficient defenses maybe, but from the sea, with a fleet as great as Lord Redwyne's and great captains leading the men directly into onto the 'deck' of the Sandship...,_ Jaime sneered at his own thoughts, and shook his head.

Even the dragon kings had too often undervalued the Dornish, but the lions hadn't the same inclination to ignore history. The dust, raising thick from under the horseshoes, was a main part of that history, and soon formed a unbreathable cloud that hid the brightness of the corals-and-gold rings worn by the heir or House Nymeros Martell on her black ringlets and even on her slim ankles.

Princess Arianne was fond of ornaments, perfumes, transparent silks and, apparently, also of guests. She had been kind, talkative, false like a golden stag and lewd as any Dornish woman. With her witty, spiced speeches and a hundred tricks, she had delayed Jaime's departure and the Lannister knight had still the queer sensation the sensual lady wanted to lay the Kingslayer down on her own bed only to put his name on some list of won tourneys, for fun _and_ in spite to her sire. Either her bastard cousins had no hidden a certain interest, the blond slim one in particular, but, if Jaime was grateful for the lady Tyene's deep knowledge of poisons and her role in healing the wench, his gratitude was strictly bordered by high walls of diffidence - and, to be honest, he was far too seasoned to be impressed by some lovely nipples, dark or rosy or whatever, pointing out from flimsly, clinging gowns.

It was even too hot to do nothing but inhale and exhale, the sun striking pitiless on the horsemen heads, now that they were finally on march, led to those blessed Water Gardens.

 _A handful of miles, no more, after such a long, endless travel._ The sky was heavy and blue as it could be only in the deep South, the neck of Honor was slick and lucid with drops of sweat. Jaime spurred him, all the same, and the good beast obeyed with a soft whinny. For a heartbeat, the knight closed his eyes and wondered how Brienne looked like, now. Addam had reassured him she was well, that her hair had grown and so she had, as if she wasn't tall enough even when they had wed. _Mayhap, I'll be obliged to go on tip-toe to look the wench into the eyes,_ Jaime considered and his stomach churned, but not in an unpleasant way.

He spurred his destrier again.

“It has been a honor to have Brienne with us.” Jaime didn't lift a single brow, nor moved a muscle, but the soft, limping man read through him anyway. Doran Nymeros Martell was deign of his reputation, evidently. “Forgive an old man if he improperly addresses such an important lady with the name her mother choose for her. You know, in a way, Brienne has becomed quite a daughter for me.” The price paused under an orange tree, pretending to enjoy a gust of cool breeze coming from the pools, but more alike he had stopped to recuperate partially his breath, the weight of his shapeless body all leaned on a ivory and ebony cane, which didn't seem very often used. A few moons, maximum a few years, and the gout would devour entirely the poor man's body. His mind was still sharp, however, so his words, under strays of molasses. “Mayhap it's because she's of a age with my son Quentyn, or because we're far kin or because she has arrived here so weak that she was barely able to swallow a sip of waterlemon. We can say I saw Brienne learning for the second time how to speak and how to walk.”

“I owe House Martell a great debt,” Jaime said hastily. He refused of thinking back on those days of wait and void, ' _black wings black words'_ thundering in his mind at every urgent message, till a crow had finally brought the news she was recovering, slowly, but recovering. Then, Brienne's first letter, a few lines in which the wench apologized with an altered, childish writing for having being wrong and expressed her grief about Jeyne Westerling's losses. She could be such a stupid, even at distance.

“You owe us nothing, ser”, Prince Doran replied, reserving the Kingslayer a long, meaningful glance, before starting again to walk under the merciless rays of fire. “What we did, we did it for the lady, and I can ensure she has been happy, here. Ser Marbrand and ser Crakehall will confirm it to you, or, if you prefer, you can lean from that small balcony and simply trust your eyes.”

Jaime followed the Prince's gesture and found himself grasping the smooth, fresh top of the parapet made with slender column of rose marble. He saw Strongboar for first, huge and tanned like a Summer Islander, then he was quite surprised to see Sandor Clegane safe and in good health, sheltering himself in the scarce shadow of a thick tamarisk, with Pod looking a toddler at his side, whilst, not far, Addam's hair shone in the sun like the copper scales shirt worn by the Norvoshi guard protecting the Prince.

Then his attention was caught by a turmoil of splashes and laughs, and there she was, blindfolded, in the middle of the pool, water reaching her mid-thighs and soaking her dark sand tunic, long pale arms stretched out in the warm air in an attempt to seize a dusky girl of an age with her, a gal whose smiling eyes had the same oblong shape and even the same curiosity of Princess Elia's eyes.

 _One of Oberyn Martell's bastards. Probably even the young, long-braided girl who has just plunged into the pools is one of his whelps. A Lannister lady surrounded by a court of Sands, Father would start a war for even less_ , Jaime thought, quickly climbing down the helical staircase. His gaze on her, he ignored the sudden freshness of the water filling his boots and wetting his breeches, until he had to stop, not knowing what to do next, now that she was so close. He did even repent to have asked Princess Arianne not to warn the wench or Addam or Lyle - such a shallow jape. He heard the other gals' chirp and fly away from the pool like crazy hummingbirds, he heard Strongboar suffocate a yell and Devan greet Addam with one of his famous chuckles, but Jaime couldn't turn, petrified at the sight of Brienne's small breasts heaving softly under the wet tunic of linen, of her fingers fidgeting in the air, almost touching his chest.

“What's going on?”, she asked with a giggle he had never imagined might come out from those swollen lips of her, a flaxen brow escaping from underneath the candid cloth covering her eyes. “Sarella? Is that you again? I warn you, if you're still hope to catch me unaware and knock me over, I'm ready to make you drink as you've never drank in your life.” Large, freckled hands reached Jaime's arm and his neck, lingering there for a while, as light as snowflakes but they were warm, pleasantly dry and warm – and suddenly she froze, holding her breath.

“Hi, wench,” Jaime said, grinning as she made out a gasp and reddened a messy red he recognized far too well. Clumsily, she began to deal with the bandage, looking like she had lost the use of her tongue and of her limbs, both, so he thought he should help her, but he didn't move a finger. He didn't dare, he didn't want to miss a thing of that little, perfect moment.

“You should have announced yourself”, her eyes peeped finally out the cloth, larger than in his memories but with the same astonishing brightness, “and men aren't allowed to enter into the pools if not to rescue a child from drowning”, she concluded, chin wobbling and, obviously, frowning.

“Men?”

“Men like you.”

“There are no men like me, Brienne. There's only me,” he laughed, taking her arm to drag her outside the water, “and you looked in need of being rescued, like the poor Jonquil of the tale.”

She frowned, more seriously than before, in a _good wench_ way. “Jonquil had never been in need of being rescued, nor I was.”

“Jonquil was also lovely whereas you're the usual annoying wench. Since there's no fool who can like that crooked nose of yours, you're still a maiden, I guess?”, he whispered in her ear in a stupid move that could be mistaken as a small peck from the poolside, struggling more than it was advisable to keep his tone neutral. The incredible wave of crimson rising on the back of her neck was the best guarantee that, no matter how she was dressed or combed, certain Dornish habits couldn't taint the Maid of Tarth.

“Yes.”

“Oh, good. I only rescue maidens. Smelling of lemons and of oranges, possibly.”

The wench had to lean her weight on him, not to stumble. It was turning out to be such a funny day, Dorne or not Dorne.

  
  


The table was a long expanse of silver trays still half-full of delicacies. Triumphs of fruits so ripe to explode with taste in your mouth, thick slices of beef served with a sauce of cinnamon and unpeeled raw almonds, roasted quails stuffed with black olives and dates, pigeon pies decorated with white apple flowers and a red fish soup, which was really a delight, even if it was damn spiced and served hot as hell. The abundant wine, sour and dark as blood, hadn't quench the burning in Jaime's stomach, and yet. The night was sweet like the sound of the harp, full of promises.

The Prince and his guard had retired quite soon, with all the Dornish courtesans, whilst Sarella Sand, the only Sand girl grown enough to be admitted at the feast, was half-drunk and half-asleep on the chair - it had been necessary only a few toasts in honor of her sire's collection of manticores or in honor of prince Oberyn's new appointment at the Small Council to deprive the Westernmen of the young lady's company. In truth, it was a was a nice thing since the gal had sniffed practically all the dinner long, looking so sincerely sad with Brienne's departure, that Jaime found himself wondering if it was suitable to invite her at the Rock. Surely she wouldn't pass unnoticed, due to her caramel skin and ebony eyes, so resembling to her father.

“Please no, I've drank even too much, tonight,” the wench protested feebly, but Lancel filled her cup with a smile deign of a Lannister. Overlooking some lesser flaws, the guy was turning out an average awful squire, and uncle Kevan insisted so much for Jaime taking also Willem and Martyn as soon as they came of age - however, it was only for the best if the green-eyed lad was glad, him too, to have his lady soon back home. Another toast, this time from the normally austere ser Harras Harlaw, who was only half a damn Ironborn since his mother was a Serrett of Silverhill, and no fucking Oberyn Martell was mentioned in it, thanking the Gods. Nor he was in the reply the Lord of Banefort felt the need of shouting, raising an arm as thick as a a ham, wrapped in a smoke gray-and-black silk. 

With a nod, Jaime made the dutiful Podrick understand that there was no more need of tasting the lady's wine, Strongboar and the bald innkeeper resembling to ser Forley Prester had practically emptied the flagon and they looked well, extremely well, except that Lyle was utterly ridiculous in colored Dornish clothes. The wench wasn't so hideous, instead, in flowing organdy pants long till her ankles and a simple linen tunic, white and fresh, secured to her waist by a golden chain of suns and moons enameled in different hues of blue, her hair tied loosely in a sort of low, asymmetrical bun with the only help of a cute hairpin. Well, it had to be cute, since it was the circular shield in ancient filigree and turquoises Jaime had send her as a gift when she had turned seventeen, along with the matching hearrings that shone at her ears and some other stuff, included a tome concerning the first Dornish War, that, they say, had been inherited by Baelor Breakspear from his mother, Queen Myriah Martell.

From behind the finely carved silver cup, Brienne send Jaime a puzzled look and he chuckled, feeling the desire of raising a toast for a very precise reason - unfortunately, that reason and the exact words he wasnted to say fled from Jaime's mind as soon as he awkwardly elbowed the wench, spilling the good vintage most on himself, but also on her, a red line now running on her inner thigh, dark and smelling good as a maiden freshly bathed in wine, donkey milk and honeyed lemonwater.

She jerked on her feet, nullifying Jaime's attempt to dry the stains with a cloth. “Don't worry, my lord, I-I was already thinking to go abed.”

“To bed. Right. It's time,” he stuttered, following her, and she looked like she had forgotten that her chamber was also _his_ chamber. After all those moons, it was a venial sin, so Jaime propended to indulge the wench and, why not, toast to sinners and redemption. But Brienne was already taking her leaves, so dumb that she was, for a certainty, unaware of the double meaning in Devan's wishes for a good night. One day, Jaime would give his cousin a lesson about the importance of forms in front of a Lannister lady, but not now.

It was such a pleasant night, with the breeze moving the silk on the wench's shaped legs. From time time, she turned her gaze, as she was checking if Jaime was really there, her steps less balanced than usual, until he lost the patience and slipped a hand around her waist, to ensure she was not going to fall. She started, making the suns and moons of her belt gingle. She wasn't used to drink or to have a man's arm around her waist. He wasn't either used to be a wench-catcher, so he felt slightly dizzy, surely clumsy, may be even a bit giddy, but not unease. How bizarre.

A part of Jaime was even disappointed, when they had to part to enter the bedroom, because the door was disegned for slim Dornish puppets. The chamber was wide, ar least, very comfortable, with high, arched windows, left open towards a large terrace.

“The view is beautiful from there,” she explained, lighting up a few candles before dismissing the red-nosed Pod who, unnoticed, had wobbled his way behind them.

“Beautiful,” Jaime repeated absentmindedly, forcing his eyes to drift around the room, lavishly furnished. The curious fact was that the wench had really grown up, she was as tall as him now but, somehow, she had more the shape of a woman. Even her lips were the lips of a woman, and he wouldn't need to go on tiptoes to... but probably it was merely the wine talking in Jaime's place. Too sour and definitely too strong, for his taste. He meditated about having another cup of it, from the jug winking from the pretty cyvasse table. Maybe even the wench was a bit thirsty.

“Would you turn yourself, ser?”

“Would you turn yourself, Jaime,” he replied and she lowered her eyes. Cruel wench.

“Would you turn yourself, Jaime? Please.”

“Why?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I have to refresh myself and change in a night gown - and there's no screens, here.”

“Oh,” he said, finding the ceiling suddenly interesting, with its painted shoots of purple grapes. _A screen, a screen! The Rock for a screen, 'cause without a fucking screen even a errand fool might spy the maidens' beauty,_ Jaime laughed inside, losing the count of the grapes because his mind resounded only of the notes of Jonquil's song. He ought to sing it loudly, since it was evident from the lyrics that Jonquil had been far from being upset with Florian when the knight spied her nakedness at the pool. Certain wenches should listen better to songs.

“Jaime? Ser?”

He stared at her. The night gown, of course, he hadn't forgotten it. “Is there a privy here, at least?”, Jaime asked, and before Brienne had the time to answer to the cleverest question that had ever left his fucking mouth - except for that time in one of the Rock caves, when he had brilliantly asked Cersei why she was so wicked to bother a poor lion, blind and toothless – the heir to the Rock had already sheltered himself behind the little door that could lead only to a fucking privy.

A Dornish privy, all white-and-orange tiles and flavoring herbs, which were burning slowly in a tiny basin of sparkling copper. Not a bad idea, the herbs, in the end. He enjoyed the sight of the smoke spiralizing during his wait, then returned to the room and it was all quiet, only a candle surviving the sea breeze, salty and intoxicating.

The wench wasn't abed, not yet.

With all that time he had left her, she had managed only to put on a shift, and the result was singularly hideous. White, with some cloth-of-silver weaved into a fabric so thin that it looked woven by a spider, the night gown had no shape if not the wench's own shape and it was unsettling, because it made the curve of her thighs glimmer like steel in the dim light but Jaime knew, somehow, that it was a weird kind of steel, soft like silk, delicate... Delicate? The fool stared at the wench's shoulder, broader than his own, where only an inconsistent strap sustained the shift. A brush, an error, and it would have pooled to the floor like the stupid wedding dress... only, this time, she had nothing underneath. His eyes had stolen a glimpse of pink, a delightful, small, strawberry pink circle with a tiny bud on it, before it was hidden like its twin.

“You shouldn't have taken off your shirt”, the maid complained, wrapping more tightly her arms over those meager teats Jaime was surely not interested in.

“I soaked it with the wine, oaf of a wench,” he retorted, glad to have the damp shirt in his hands to conceal what the fucking Dornish wine and the fucking velvet breeches had made to the unruliest part of his body. “Nothing you haven't seen, yet.”

“It's different, now. I-I mean, so much time had passed.”

So much time, indeed. Too much.

“You've been missed sorely, Brienne.” It wasn't the wisest thing to say, maybe, the wench looking almost hurt, eyes moist, shining like crystalline pools. “By all the people of the Rock, I mean. Aunt Genna for first, she had practically ordered me to come here in person and bring you home.”

She looked even more hurt, now. What wenches wanted, that was a mystery Jaime was too high and nervous to solve. For all he cared, she could go bugg...

“The lady Genna is always special,” she murmured, in her voice a vibrating note that made him cringe, “and you were very thoughtful to send the jewels and the book, Jaime. The book, most of all. It's so...”

“Interesting, you liked the tome and I've been _thoughtful_ , so you feel the duty to thank me. But you've already thanked me in the letters, wench, so I see no use of bore me again on the subject.” The thought of the books piled in the small library facing the sea he was restoring for her at the Rock had made Jaime's jaw clench and his words turn sour like the wine. “I made a long, very long travel, and I'm tired.” He added, to soften his speech.

“Tired. Fine.” Her hands stopped toying with the damn shift, and she brought them to her head to open the hairpin. Gods, if her hair had grew long and, loose, it was nice. It gentled her. A pity she was still bleating. “You could have sent a crow and told Addam...”

“ _Addam_?”

“...and told _ser_ Addam to bring me back to the Rock, avoiding Honor any effort. You're still able to write, aren't you?”

“What the hell...”

“No need of being rude, ser. I was worried about your writing skills, that's all. You never wrote in all these moons.”

“I wrote a thousand letters, blind of a child.”

“Not to me.”

Fuck the wench and her sudden fondness for crows. It wasn't Jaime's fault, he had tried, he had tried every sleepless night and there have been far too many. His hand closed into a fist, and the sudden movement blew the last candle out, the only light in the darkness being Brienne's eyes. It had always been her eyes, the only light - if only he could write it, or find the way to say it.

“Sure, I ought to write you, after you kindly suspected me to be a poisoner”, he said instead, because it angered him too much the way she looked at him now, as if he was someone who could change and behave like a perfect knight only because he had met on his path a distrustful maid who couldn't even welcome her husband and lord with a fucking kiss, after all the road dust he had swallowed for her.

She trembled in the night like a falling star. “I apologized about it. More than once, struggling to figure out who wanted me dead or why you saved me when it was safer for you to send my bones back to Tarth, but I failed. I always fail.” Her smile had nothing of a smile. “So, ser, I'm grateful, but why? Why did you choose me instead of your kin and ...love?”

She shouldn't have talked to him like that, frail and bold, and Jaime hadn't to justify himself. There was nothing to explain, he hadn't actually chosen, he had simply acted. He told that angrily to the stupid wench, whilst emptying the space between them. A quip would have been a better choice probably, judging from her face, but something in Jaime's blood ran too hot to let him reflect on things.

“So wench, tell me, why are you that speechless? Can't the Kingslayer do the right thing, for a change?”, he roared, so close to the maid to breath her own breath.

“Don't use that word," she replied firmly, keeping her eyes on his, "I do detest it and detest the King, for having invented it.”

“And for having forced you to wed me, right?”

“No!”, she shouted, drifting her glance to Jaime's boots. “It's not what I said.”

“Those were the worst thing to say and the worst thing to deny, wench” Jaime growled, and before she could lift her eyes, he cupped her burning cheek with his palm, weaving the fingers of the other hand with the soft pale strands at the back of her neck, to pull the wench into his arms and taste on her lips whatever echo remained of the words she had stupidly loosened against his last defenses.

It was sweet, and bitter, too.

He loved that taste of hers, the dourness of wine and then lemons, tarty apples and raspberries, but it was not too tarty. Jaime found and licked also honey on her lips and grew greedy, following the rhythm of the unsure, yet frantic, paths that Brienne's hands began to trace on the bare skin of his back. She didn't resist him as Jaime angled her head so that he could sink his tongue deeper into her mouth - she was good, warm, even if green as a squire at his first fight, arching her spine with a little jump as his fingers dug into the flesh of her bottom, moaning a loud moan as Jaime left her mouth to start trailing kisses and tiny bits up her strong jaw.

“Gods”, she panted and, for a moment, when Jaime dared to take both hearring and earlobe between his teeth, her weight was all on him, but, like in the pool, he was strong enough to hold her till the bed and laid her over the sheets, gingerly, adjusting his body on her as she was made of porcelain.

He grinned, then, struggling not to cry or bite her neck, when the wench shifted nervously under him, finally aware of the swell rocking against the laces of his breeches, rocking against her thigh. He kissed her, tenderly in Jaime's intentions, a peck on the notch at the base of her throat that was meant to be a promise, the promise that he would be patient, gentle, but it came out hasty, needy. He needed too much to see her eyes.

Jaime braced himself on the mattress on tensed arms because he truly needed to eat her jaw, her mouth, her cunt with kisses, but he needed more sorely to see her, to discover the wonder in Brienne's eyes, to enjoy the flush covering her skin or the tightening of her rosy nipples underneath the flimsy shift, partially lifted to reveal a promising constellation of freckles running up the pale hip.

Hunger, Jaime recognized its damned fangs, its growl in the raucous groan he let out as he slipped a knee between her thighs and bent over, to crash again his lips to hers, and when the wench tilted her head to meet his kiss, the tentativeness of her movement, the scratch her teeth left on his lower lip, it was all so merrily awkward that he laughed -

\- and Brienne froze, every inch a young girl that had never kissed or had never been kissed, if not on the altar, and for a fraud. For a bad king's whim. For a fool's joke.

Jaime froze, him too, the heavenly, now uncertain, brush of her fingers on his nape becoming suddenly wrong.

Something he had no rights to claim. It was all clearly wrong. A lie as big as the desire that was making his groins ache and his wits go to rot.

The shine in her eyes had the blue of something metallic, now, and Jaime recalled the small, slender sword that she had hidden under the wedding silks to defend herself from the Kingslayer. He had cackled, then, when he had found it out, Brienne looking so drowsy and unsettled among the sheets and an instant later the winds had began howling like a direwolf and Tyrion had started knocking at their cabin door.

With another growl, angry and desperate, Jaime rolled off her embrace and sat on the edge of the ebony bed, pressing the sheet to the point where his breeches were damp of lust - it was only lust and it was better to hide it. Hypocritically, in a very Lannister way, as if he hadn't stroked his cock, hard as rock, on her - whimpering, drunk of her groans - just a few moments before.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," he spat as soon as he managed to breath with a minimum of dignity. "It has been a mistake, and I'm the only one to blame for it."

She deigned Jaime of no answer, but it didn't really make the difference. He was used to get shit instead of songs the rare times he did the right thing. Feeling cold as the sweat on his muscles cooled in the breeze, Jaime wondered what the Imp would have thought about it. Tyrion would have made one of his grimaces and argued that his golden brother was changing into the sad copy of Baelor the Blessed, damn him. With the corner of the eye, he noticed Brienne had crouched at the opposite end of the bed, arms clenched around her legs, a coverlet of the same dark raspberry tinge of her lips tossed on her shoulders as a shawl.

She was shaking.

"Dornish red is too strong for me," Jaime went on, jerking on his feet to get far from the temptation of comforting the wench with a touch that would have doomed them both, and he stumbled in something hard but light, "but I reassure you it will never happen again.”

The jug of wine quivered on the edge of the cyvasse table, then shattered in a hundred pieces as soon as it reached the floor, staining a beautiful carpet, a century old. Now Jaime owned even a fucking Myrish rag to the Prince Doran, and a linen curtain that was easy to tear off and was thick enough to be used as a blanket, to face the coolness of the night.

Once outside, Jaime took a deep breath, then another, many others, until the serenade of the crickets became the only sound he could hear – and, as he came back to himself, the sea was in front of him, placid, murmuring softly. The wench was right about it, the view was gorgeous from the terrace. There was a dozen moons floating on the waves, on the pools, on the puddles left by the children on the lucid marbles, and only one moon, lonely, but no more weeping, above him. Jaime waited a bit more, every instant of peace confirming the wench had fallen asleep. Only then, when he got sure about it, he moved a shameless hand to the laces of his breeches.

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannisters has issues, it is known, so I don't feel guilty, at all.  
> Ok, I lied, I feel so bad.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank to all the people following this fic. Comments were so incredibly good to read, pure serotonine. 
> 
> Time for Brienne's POV. A night song for a sweet seventeen and for the people who love her the most - and a resurfacing, somehow.

_Sorrow pierced Brienne like a spear. “I don't want to lose you," was all she managed to reply._

_“Neither I want. Come with me.” A few words, and a smile as white as mother-of-pearl. Blinding._

“ _Why do you want me to...”_

“ _You should know me by now, sweetheart.” The smile widened, but Brienne felt its sadness – it was the same sad smile Brienne had believed to see once, in open sea._ A drowned sailor _, the Bravoosi helmsman had commented, and the ship's boy that was washing the deck with her had shivered, and urged her to thrown outboard her knife, as a gift for the sailor's wedding._

“Child.” Her father had always called her _child_ , and she ought to like it, as ever. Still, Brienne was no more a child, she had grown in the last moons or maybe it was Lord Selwyn who had grown smaller, somehow. For sure, he looked older than the night he brought her to the altar with a stern face and a startling blue doublet slashed with pink silk. His hair was different, whiter, thinner.

Frail.

His hands were more needy than strong, but his touch on her back was still good, consoling. He brought with him the smells of Tarth. How much Brienne had been missing them, and him. “Sweet child of mine,” her father said, again. He was so handsome when he smiled, when his booming voice was modulated into a murmur. “Sit. No, not there. Here, close to me. There are things you have to know, and things I have to ask you, far from any stranger.”

 _Stranger._ She let the word grown cold in the air, refusing to let its chill invade her.

Here they were, father and daughter, both with calloused hands and goose bumps for anticipation, and, in the dim light of a blind lantern, they looked no different from two smugglers facing the waves on a little boat.

It was all true, then.

“ _Soon the Lord Bryce will retire and, when any echo of the feast will be over, your father will summon you. It's all decided, Brie. Letters has been exchanged, at least three crows has left the Water Gardens for Tarth.”_

“ _I-I don't understand.”_

_A deep breath, a light pressure on her thigh. “Prince Doran. He gets to know everything, always, and he's no man to waste an opportunity to strengthen Dorne. That's what you are for him. An opportunity.”_

_“The Prince, he has always been so kind with me.”_

_“Oh, he likes you a lot, but don't fool yourself, sweetheart. It's your claim he wants.”_

_“Tarth?”_

_“Tarth, for a start.” A chuckle. “The fact you're still a maiden makes only things easier, but the Prince Doran would welcome you back in Dorne even as a widow, I guess.” Another chuckle, this time bitter. “Maiden_ and _widow would be probably what his only brother would opt for, if it was up to him to decide._

_Maiden, widow - Brienne felt as she was drowning. How could they knew - it couldn't be true._

  
  


“Here we are, child.” Lord Selwyn looked suddenly concerned. “There's no kind way to ask it, so forgive my rudeness.” He set his cobalt eyes into hers. “Are you still a maiden?”

“I am.” Brienne's voice came out thin, muffled from layers and layers of waters, from the very bottom of the sea. She darted her glance all around, and found the abysses far more comfortable than the prettily furnished chamber the Lord Caron had reserved to the Evenstar.

“Has he ever touched you, or forced you to touch him?”

“No,” she answered with no hesitation. Her eyes rested on the tapestry hung on the wall, depicting Jonquil and her sisters in the pool, and an ironical laugh bubbled and agonized in her chest. “But they say ser Jaime carried me to the ship in his own arms when I was half-dead. Does it count as a touch, Father?”

The frown on Lord Selwyn's face was eloquent enough. “Brienne, the man's handsome and maybe he can look as a true knight, or he wouldn't have deceived the Sword of the Morning, but he's still his father's son, he's still the white cloak who killed his king. Try to recall it.”

“It's an easy thing to recall, with people spitting where he has just passed by,” she replied, studying the wood grains on the ancient oak floor. Even them looked upset by her attitude.

“No one has insulted him so far as I could hear.”

“Oh, not to his good-father's face, nor to his.” _No one would be so daring_ , she could add, but she didn't. It would be useless and even mean, since Brienne knew her father too well not to notice how much the lines on his forehead had deepened when she had entered from the main castle gate, in Lannister crimson and gold, being received with all the cold courtesy and fake smiles the Lord of Nightsong might reserve to the Kingslayer's wife.

It was quite a nonsense, to felt an intruder in her Stormlands, in the place where she could have been happy, with a child on her breast showing Galladon's purple eyes and flaming locks similar to those crowning Lord Bryce's head. Even in the south, she had been only Brienne, sometimes even cousin Brienne - princess Daenerys' blood, queen Nymeria's blood. In the west, she was still the lady Lannister, good-sister of the King, wife to the heir of the most impregnable of all castles and mother-to-be of a bunch of lords and ladies and knights, and also the next Evenstar.

She gazed intensely at her father, trying to understand who she was for him.

“Child,” lord Selwyn begun, dropping his glance to the strong hands she had inherited from him. Had he always been so worn? “Tarth needs your loyalty, now more than ever.”

Loyalty had the bitter taste of convulsions, and the look of the deadly mask sparkling on a manticore tail. Not that Brienne had ever seen a manticore if not drawn on a parchment, Prince Oberyn had always been careful to keep its pets distant from her, for a form of kindness, or maybe because he mistook secrets for something charming.

“Did I ever give you a reason to doubt my loyalty, Father?”

“No, Brienne. Never.” Relief washed over him, visibly, yet his eyes refused again to meet hers, and she felt uneasy. The Evenstar was a good lord, a just man, a lovely father and she had no rights to judge him as she was doing. “Things are rapidly changing, child, and the Stormlands can't and won't suffer another invasion from the Reach, no matter in which form the Tyrells will knock at our door.”

She suffocated a scream, because it made no sense to scream, underwater.

  
  


  
  


“ _You're such an innocent, Brie. Why did your father ask us to pass by Nightsong? You really believe his horse couldn't bear his weight till Highgarden when Highgarden is easier to reach from Tarth? Open your eyes and use them. Can't you see those mountains? All those peaks? The Marches. That's why we're here. Lord Caron and all the Marcher Lords, no matter if Stormlanders, Reachers or Dornish, are not happy with the betrothal of Lord Renly to the only daughter of Lord Tyrell. No wise man in Westeros is. Too much power in Storm End's, where the storms doesn't truly end but begin, and, in all the while, King Robert has lost the respect of too many, after he let his brother Stannis being trialed with accuses as false as a Pentoshi trader. I'm afraid, Brie, that you're the only decent Baratheon adult that remains.”_

“ _I'm a Tarth.”_

“ _Formally, a Lannister. But not for long.” The smile disappeared. “Titles can change, but not blood, and the Baratheons wed into Tarth so many times that the Maesters had lost the count. I wish I can have a kiss for every time your lord Father has made you play at come-into-my-castle, just to learn them all, the names of lords, ladies, kings and queens who contributed to create that freckled face of yours, sweetheart.”_

  
  


  
  


Brienne ignored not only the need of screaming, but also the pulse of reducing to shreds anything in the room, beginning from the stupid tapestry staring at her.

“All I told you, I told it to my only daughter and heir. No Lannister must know about it, Brienne. That's of the utmost importance.”

She shook her head, incredulous. Her father was fifty-two, Lord Estermont and Lord Selmy were surely older and, since even the Crownlands were involved, Lord Celtigar was part of it, and Lord Celtigar was no less than seventy. How could it be possible? Were they all convinced to be playing at cyvasse? With Lord Tywin sitting idle in a corner whilst they argued about moving the dragon before the trebuchet? Brienne was just seventeen and she was far from being smart, but she was also far from being that foolish.

The Evenstar paid no attention to her objections, though. According to him and the other players, lord Renly had given up the idea of helping His Grace to get free of flatterers that were poisoning his mind and set instead his mind on the Iron Throne, as proved by the alliance with the ambitious Lord of Highgarden. That would be nought but betrayal, and Renly, Renly was no the vain man Brienne's father was describing, whilst Lord Tartyll was the butcher of Ashford, the man who had sent Mad Aerys the head of Lord Cafferen and had blooded the Stormlands, and not a possible ally.

It was all absurd, and she told her sire, but he replied she was just a child, she had never known war or winter and all her concerns were noble but hadn't ser Goodwin taught her that, once in a battlefield, even the noblest of knights could be unhorsed by a slinger? Brienne's felt cramps, in her stomach, in her chest, as her father went on, stating that she shouldn't mind about the Head of the King, since the old lion's attention was entirely reserved to the North, to Winterfell, where his wicked dwarf son was rumored of having done something unforgivable.

“Tarth must do its duty to preserve the peace,” the Lord of Evenfall insisted and when he had finished to explain what Tarth required from her, Brienne's lips burned so much with unwelcome memories, that she was glad to be again in the cool abysses, cheering with all the others as the drowned sailor kissed his fish-tailed bride, a gorgeous silver knife shimmering to his belt.

_“Why Prince Quentyn was no more in Ironwood when we arrived there? By chance? Oh, no, I'll bet he's with his father, now, planning for his coming of age tour, which will begin from Casterly Rock. He's almost seventeen, now, a good guy, kind, skilled with languages and dutiful, they say. Very dutiful. A bit short for you, I fear.”_

_Brienne tilted her head, alarmed, and the smile came back, reassuring._

“ _You may even be happy together, sweetheart.”_

“ _It can't be.”_

“ _If you don't trust me, trust your own ears. Your father will surely tell you about Prince Doran's proposal, tonight. That's why he made such a long travel, certain things can't be trusted to riders or crows.” Tears pricked Brienne's eyes, and started rolling over her cheeks. Light as a feather, a finger caught one and brought it to a sweetly shaped mouth. “I-I'm sure your father's first worry was about you, however. He came to be certain that you're well and fully recovered, sweetheart.”_

_The ugly maid nodded, but she was so cold inside._

“Child, are you sure to be well? You're shivering.”

“A chill, no more than that, Father.”

The Lord of Evenfall shoot his heir a doubtful look. “It's a great honor to become a Dornish princess, and, all for the best, prince Quentyn has already agreed to reside in Tarth and have your children keep our name.” He squeezed her hands in his. “Your mother would be so glad to see it happen, Brienne. I've never told you about it, but Elaena had been raised at court, and Prince Doran's mother had always had a soft spot for her.”

What a coincidence. Those were, more or less, the same words ser Kevan had used to describe the lady Joanna Lannister's favor for Brienne's mother. Or everybody was lying to the stupid maid or something must have gone to rot in King's Landing, a life ago, and she couldn't help but think to the ghosts that troubled Jaime's nights. She suddenly had enough of talking, and raised slowly on her feet, brushing away the thick braid from her shoulder and banishing, with the same feigned indifference, any thought of the golden man whose sight and touch she couldn't stand, lately.

Her father followed her, grabbing her forearm before she could reach the door.

“Brienne, you haven't still answered me.” There was something cruelly sweet and melting in the old Lord's eyes - concern, guilt, or even shame, maybe. Her fingers tickled, feeling the need of touching him, but she was tall, and broad, and strong, and the Gods hadn't shaped her to touch or be touched, as someone had recently recalled her, cutting her skin with blades that had had all the appearance of kisses.

“Is an answer needed, my lord?”

“Brienne, sweet child of mine.” The hold on her forearm tightened. “Another year, well something more maybe, but, soon, you'll be free from the Lannister's claws, in Tarth, with me. This time I'll make sew for you the most beautiful of all dresses, a princess' dress, candid as snow and so heavy with seed pearls and diamonds you'll find hard to walk down the aisle, they'll write a song about your beauty, child, I swear it.” The more the Evenstar spoke, the more his voice got weak.

She ought to wish her father a good travel, health and prosperity, but the weight of his fingers on her was too heavy, quite unbearable and he didn't hint at leaving her go. All she could do was staring like an idiot at that familiar hand, so much missed and now so pressing.

“Brienne. Look at me, Brienne, please. Forget what I said, I beg you. There must another way, there's always more than a choice. Forget everything and come with me, come back to Tarth on the morrow.”

Bubbles came out her mouth, as she laughed, silently, from the depths.

“ _Come with me, I beg you. There's always more than a choice, there's not only Tarth. Choose yourself for once, choose us.”_

He was in their room, full dressed, as if he was waiting for her. She almost chuckled at the thought. Almost.

To be honest- and Brienne wasn't used to lie to herself - the golden man hadn't even raised his eyes as she entered, pouring all his attention on a letter she hadn't noticed on the desk before leaving the bedroom to meet her father. So, Brienne wasn't wrong, the black horse she had seen in the castle backyard was really the Hound's wondrous mount, his sweated coat shining in the moonlit. For a heartbeat, she rocked the queer idea of asking Jaime what had happened of so urgent to require Clegane to serve as the most unlikely of all harbingers, but she gave it up soon. It made no difference, her beloved lord husband scarcely spoke with her since they had merrily reunited in the Water Gardens and, however, in a few hours she would be far, finally far from him and from all that gold and pain.

She didn't even know because she had returned to that chamber. She needed nothing from him, she was already wearing practical clothes, black as the night, suitable for a long ride.

“Another walk, wench?”, Jaime's words reached her when her fingers were already on the handle of the door. She decided to ignore him, as usual. “Wait. Hey, are you dumb, wench? What's difficult in the word _wait_?” With a couple of astonishingly agile strides, Jaime got to put his body between her and the door.

He was so close, that she could reach out and hit him - and his smell hadn't changed. Musk, a pinch of sweat, and something salty Brienne hadn't still managed to catch. He was so absurdly beautiful, even now that looked so tired, with a few lines he hadn't on Tarth.

Tarth. If she stretched out a hand through and beyond that wall of flesh and muscles, she almost could touch the island, its cliffs, its meadows...

It hurt so much, that she felt dizzy.

She realized with disgust that he was trafficking with a rag only when he had already put it on her shoulder. “It's cold on these fucking Marches, wench,” he said, daring a smile but it wasn't the smile she needed to see. “Don't want you to take a cold and oblige the both of us to stay a day more in this hole of a castle with our prickly Lord Caron and the whining crones he sells as knights and bannermen.”

Once, she would have replied, vexed, to the insults he spread on a guest. Now, the only thing Brienne desired was his lovely ass to slid graciously to the left so that she could go on her way. But the golden man wasn't done with her, unfortunately.

“Are you going to have a long walk, Brienne?”

“Very long.”

“Good. Nothing better than a pleasant walk under the stars to improve a wench's mood. I need to get distracted, me too, tonight. I should come with you.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don't want you to come, I don't want you to hung like a stupid icicle before the door just to impede me leaving, I don't want to listen more to your bullshit, I just want you to be swallowed by the earth so that I can get free to go wherever I want with whoever I want.” The words poured out of her like fester, but the wounds still hurt. It burned, that spot on her inner thigh, her hands were numb, always numb, her jawline, her neck, her earlobes, they ached as if they had been clawed, mauled by a beast, and she prayed every fucking night the Mother above to let her forget how sore and useless her lips were, but all in vain.

“Who's him?” Jaime snapped. “The man you want. His name.” She realized to have said too much, and, still, his conclusions were even crazier than the look in his eyes. He stepped closer and she almost lost her balance for the shock. “His name, Brienne, I'll make him curse his own name and his father and his mother and all his ancestors before I'll be done with him.”

She had to go backward, two steps more. “You know nothing and you have no right...”

“No right? Must a lion ask the permission of a wench? Good Gods, Brienne what has he done to you? What has he promised to you? A Sept, a family? He can't give it to you, you're wed, you're wed to me, and no, you're not free to go wherever you want with whoever you want, my lady, not until I'm still among the living ones. Love?” She startled so violently that her head bumped against the wall she was backing. She had let him pin her to the wall. “So, that's love he promised you. Love. A crown of flowers. A kiss.” His breathes were incoherent and harsh on her face, and she slid silently her fingers to the dagger hidden underneath her shirt. “Has he already kissed you, Brienne? Have you kissed him back?” She should have stabbed him, she should have yanked his filthy hand off her cheek, and torn that damned thumb off with an only bite, but it was all so ludicrous and sad. Humiliation made her difficult even to think to nothing but to the feverish touch of Jaime's thumb of her lower lip. “I want his name, Brienne.” He almost shouted. “Who's the man who has ever dared to kiss you?”

Brienne opened wide her eyes, only now realizing she had closed them. “Ask the mirror.”

Jaime gasped, livid. She hoped he got struck by a lightning, there, before her, but the Gods never listened to the such of hers. Time passed, how much she couldn't say, nor she couldn't say how he could he be that dashing even if with his mouth open, his hair and his clothes in disarray. Brienne finally found the strength to pull his hand away, his body away. “Don't you ever presume to touch me once more and save your guts”, she threatened, ready to jump at Jaime's throat like a lioness, at the very first move he might hint at. “Don't you ever presume to question my honor, don't you ever presume to force me to...”

“Force you?” Paleness was new to his face, and yet, it made his eyes look even more alive. “No, I-I swore it, my lady, I'll never demand you to do something against your will.”

He had sworn it, yes - he stepped aside, finally.

Finally. “Don't go, Brienne.” How she detested his voice. “Not without something to defend yourself. Take it.” The maid accepted the bundle the man was now lending her, without even deigning him of a glare, in the hope it would all be over soon. It must end, that torture. “Write me, only to let me know you're well.” The hinges sang a beautiful night song, a song of alleviation, of freedom. “Your letters... I-I know by heart every single line of them. Brienne...”

The corridor and the stairs were dark enough to swallow that hateful voice and treacherous enough to make the girl fall and break that thick neck of hers, but she had to run, and was still breathless when she spotted in the alcove the lovely silhouette and the lovelier smile, white as words which made no sense.

The Hound saw them, for he was in the stable attending the heavy courser he had gifted of a blasphemous name. The huge man spat on the straw, and cursed, before turning back to fumble in the saddlebag. He had evidently decided he had seen nothing, and Brienne felt thankful, because the man was stronger than the both of them, probably, and she wouldn't want to face him. Not now that she her heart was heavy with hopes.

Even Sarella looked frankly relieved, and so weird to look upon, now that her luxurious black curls had been sacrificed to freedom, like Brienne's straw. The breeze was funnily cool on her nape, with only Jaime's cloak to shield it. For an instant, the maid of Tarth lost the balance, risking to fall from the mare even before having ended to mount.

“Hey, all well, sweetheart?”, her caring friend asked, taking the bulky bundle from Brienne's hand, to ease her movements.

“I'm fine, just ...lightheaded.”

“I am, me too. It's the crescent moon, she helps the brave. We'll live like in a song, Brienne, I promise you, in the islands where summer never dies,” Sarella said, her voice giggling and ringing like a silver bell. She had such soft lips, full and dark, and eyes as bright as the night but it was the sun who lead any of her steps on earth. Even with this short cut of hair, the Dornish girl was a wonder, and Brienne felt again guilty because she couldn't give her more than friendship, and grateful, because Sarella was so full of love to give that she had simply hugged the stupid maid of Tarth, when Brienne had clumsily rejected her, one morning, at the Water Gardens, in a pause from their daily training at the longbow.

“What's that? For Gods' sake, did you take his Valyrian steel sword?” The fear in Sarella's voice shook Brienne from her daydream, and she found the Hound's gaze quite unbearable on her back.

“You must be wrong.” But Sarella was right, and Brienne was now holding in her hands the most gorgeous sword had ever been forged, spell-forged, the lion-head roaring in a golden and ruby fury against her sweated palm. There must be a mistake. “There must be a mistake”, she repeated, loud. “He has given it to me for a mistake. He was tired, and not fully in himself. I can't take it, I have to return it.”

Even in the dim light of the only one torch hung to the stable walls, she could see that Sarella was pale, her onyx eyes moist as she glimpsed at the Hound.

“I have to return it, in person, and check if Jaime's well. Probably he got bad news,” Brienne explained in a labored breath. A weapon like that, it was made only for a knight, and Clegane was no knight, nor a good man, and he had surely brought bad news, that's why Jaime had acted so crazily. She couldn't leave without being sure he was fine. “It won't take long, Sarella.”

“Take care, sweetheart.”

“I'll back in a handful of minutes. I go, and come back. I have to go, and see him. I need to know he's fine, you understand, don't you?”

“I do.”

“You're the best of friends, Sarella.”

“I'll always be your friend, Brie.” Sarella replied, softly, her smile as pure as a girl's smile, her lips tender as they left a kiss on Brienne's cheek.

Brienne left but turned once, twice, then she felt bad at being such a hesitant fool and rushed back to Jaime, but when the wind pierced the old stones of the two slender towers shielding the only gate of access to the keep, she heard the stones singing, and, only then, the sound of horseshoes on the cobblestones - and she stopped, her heart knowing there was no more need to rush.

 _Take care, my friend,_ she prayed, lingering in the passages crowded with the portraits of people who resembled to a kind boy she met only once, her mind looking for her father's room, her feet always bringing her shell back to Jaime's chamber.

Her chamber.

Quietly, gingerly, she laid the scabbard on the mattress.

Quietly, gingerly, Jaime looked her taking off the cloak, the doublet, the breeches, before climbing up the bed and bury herself under the blankets. She was so cold, that she said nothing when he reached her abed, getting far too close for the standard of decency, notwithstanding the sword between them. As her eyelids closed, Brienne feigned to be somewhere else, safe, water dripping from her sore muscles as she let herself fall, exhausted by the long swim. She recognized the place, the mermaids had helped her arrive on the little cove before the ruins of Morne, the one you can reach only from the open sea, where the sand is made of tiny grains of black amethyst, round and pleasantly warm under the skin.

Sleep came as sweet as home -

\- and sweet was the green in Jaime's eyes when she woke up, a few hours later. Sweet, and striped with red, as if he hadn't slept at all.

“Good morning, Brienne”, he said, hoarsely, and his breath was stale.

 _Good morning, Jaime_ , she thought.

“Tyrion?”, she asked.

“It's Tyrion, yes. They want to behead him or send him to the Wall, and Father won't raise a finger, not for him.” Jaime's hand was on the hilt, caressing the lion's mane as if he wanted to steal its force.

“I'm sorry, Jaime.”

“You're one of the few, wench”, he smiled a tired smile. So white, like Sarella's, but Brienne couldn't think about Sarella, not now. “And probably you shouldn't, since my brother has surely done something to anger the Starks, even if he hasn't surely done what he has been accused of. He detests climbing up the winding stairs of old towers, 'cause his legs are too torn and short for it, or for allowing him to push a child from a window.”

The walls spun around them, and she put her hand on the blade to feel its coldness and steady her breath, but she met Jaime's hand. “How old was he, the child?”

“Six, seven, I don't know exactly. Lord Stark's second son. The brat survived the fall, so Tyrion can still hope for a black cloak. He'll look taller in it, maybe.”

Brienne felt relieved, only a bit, the little ache coming from her bitten lip was not helping her to comprehend the strange mixture of desperation, tease and request on Jaime's face. He was so handsome, and lonely, his glance low to her mouth, and she fought the urge of surging and kissing him, offering him what he'd detest and reject. She kept her hand stroking his, that was not that compromising, and there was the sword between them, she was caressing the lion's mane of gold, no more than that, and was too distraught by the news to notice Jaime's hand, she could tell, if he would scold her about it.

Jaime didn't. He didn't hint at scolding or mocking her. He just looked as he wanted to rest and forget, his eyes finally closing. “I was told a sword like that needs a name”, he said, half asleep. “I was thinking something like Oathkeeper, if you like it.”

“Oathkeeper. It's a good name,” she heard herself reply. Her breath was even staler than his, but the shy smile on Jaime's face made clear he didn't care about it.

“Oathkeeper, then,” Jaime replied with a sigh which sounded soaked with relief and with something more, and fell asleep, trapping her hand in his with a last, unexpected move, clearly unintentional.

It took Brienne a bit to decide it was better not to move, not to bother him, because he was so sad and she was so sad, too, sad and puzzled, finding hard to understand.

Even the the Valyrian steel sword sparkling tenuously in the morning light was something she could barely understand, beginning from the oath it was meant to accomplish. There were always so many vows to fulfill - too many, maybe, for an only life. Obey your lord father. But obey your lord husband. One flesh. One heart. One soul. Cursed be the one who come between man and wife. Cursed be the one who raise a finger against a child. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. South, east, west, north, it didn't matter. Respect the Gods. The Gods should respect Brienne more, maybe, and explain how she was supposed to do, to be strong and defend the others and forsake no vows when she was nought but a broken-hearted wench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sadist, it's Westeros that is a terrible place.
> 
> Sorry for Bran, sorry for Tyrion, sorry for Sarella, sorry for Brienne, sorry for Jaime (but not that much because he made Brienne weep and I'm still angry about that). I haven't forgotten Stannis, but he can rot in a cell if it does mean he will stay far from Edric and Shireen. 
> 
> Next chapter is going to be less angsty, it's a promise!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's POV (with a few flashbacks in italics) and flowers  
> to apologize for all the angst of last chapters  
> to thank for all the incredibly kind comments.
> 
> I'll answer to all of them, as soon as my right arm will be a bit more cooperating.

Bright was the green, and luxurious, the branches of trees so thick and desperately in need of some space in the sun that they yanked each other like courters, fought and bickered and spat resin to each other, bowing to the wind - and some of them, thrown together by the same wind, ended to kiss passionately, in a jubilee of shattered leaves and bird songs. Being there and thinking back to the desert was quite weird, even for a weird girl like Brienne.

And yet.

A triangle of sky neat and blue in the roof of leaves and her mind was back to the sudden bliss of discovering the infinite colors of the sea behind the dunes, once reached the coast south of the Tor, the labor of the travel vanishing from Jaime's face when they all rushed into the waves to wash away the dust and the sand. Brienne had laughed so much at watching the knight of Feastfire lose a game underwater (and his breeches) against the long-faced heir to Ten Towers that she had swallowed salt water - and coughed her soul on the shore, gaining a harsh look by Jaime. Probably a Lannister lady shouldn’t have been the disaster she was but, at least, if Brienne's hair had become a thorny bush, forcing it back to normality had been quite easy compared to the torture Sarella had inflicted her in Godsgrace.

Because of Shandystone.

Or better, because of Jaime and the sand storm that had surprised them as the sun was going down, beyond the three half-crumbled arches, setting an orange glow on the ruins. Sarella dragged Brienne immediately to the ground, and she crouched there, with Pod and Addam and the hooded Lord Banefort, and soon Lyle run to their side, lending her a thick cloth to protect her face. With mid-blinded eyes, she noticed that Lancel was trying to do the same for Jaime when a gust of wind more violent than the precedents kicked the lad's legs off and she jerked free from Sarella's hug, but Jaime had been faster, managing to hold the squire and bring him till the remnants of a huge column, so Brienne stood there, in the middle of the storm, and the sunset had inflamed the sand so that the air was purple and crimson like fire and it was like she was on a pyre - 

\- and it was beautiful. _He_ was beautiful, among the whirls and flames of sand.

 _Stupid wench_ , Jaime said, his first words in days, straddling her, and swearing. She flipped him, but then the sand buried them and modesty both, and they had to worm their way out like wyrms, coughing till Godsgrace, where the lady Delonne Allyrion had made them drink something bitter and scraping, her grandson Daemon looking at Brienne's scorched cheeks as if she was a creature coming from a book of legends. Maybe the strong-jawed knight wasn't that wrong, her headache was surely legendary and it made look the bed so inviting, but she and Jaime passed all time on the floor, Jaime looking at her coughing sand and retching bile and Brienne looking at him coughing sand and retching bile and half-chewed pieces of cheese, because he hadn't listened the Dornish lady, nor ser Daemon Sand, nor even the maester, and he had forced something under his teeth, the golden idiot. Brushing and untangling her hair, the morning after, was another nightmare, so long and painful that Brienne even suggested to cut it short, but, with a voice coming directly from the deepest of the seven hells, Jaime forbid it, making Sarella almost fall from the stool for the laughs.

The maid of Tarth also laughed at the memory, for the irony of the situation, for the sweetness of Sarella's help, for the bitterness of having almost forgotten her duty - and her laugh resounded too loud through the wood, disturbing a fawn, which peeped out from a blackberries bush with eyes as big as plates. It was as lovely as the curly girl that was riding amazingly well at Brienne's side, but far shier. No surprise that the little animal fled, in less than the blink of an eye.

“Would you like to engage a hunt, my lady?”

“Not today, ser Garlan,” the lady Lannister politely declined, to the evident dismay of some of the horsemen, included the short knight from Horn Hill who kept staring insolently to the bare skin of her neck. If the man needed to dirt his white surcoat with the blood of the poor fawn, well, he hadn't chosen the right morning or the right companions. With her beloved lord husband entrapped in a meeting with Lord Mace Tyrell, it had started like too a lovely day for Brienne to waste her arrows on a body so small and tender, and the ground had begun to curve, in an inviting incline. She already knew the Reachers weren't half as good as the Dornish in riding on the sand and now she wondered if they could compete with the Westernmen about riding down a slope and smiled a crooked smile towards Renly's betrothed, a little thing all curls and giggles who, Brienne suspected, was way smarter than she wanted to appear. “How about a good ride, instead?”

Honey needed no more than a light pressure to understand, and when the mare started galloping downhill, avoiding the trunks at the very last moment and jumping on the bushes as if she was made of storm, the girl from Tarth missed again her hair – the way the wind made it _swoosh_ like a Dothraki whip, the way it concealed her red and sweated face from Jaime's glance, when Brienne tried to recuperate her breath.

Not that the golden scum or anyone else was there to look at her, now. Pleased by the beautiful mare's skill, bothered by the child hidden in her still believing in fairy tales, the homely maid found herself alone in a small clearing, the one with the well, where they had watered the horses, earlier.

“Are you thirsty, Honey? Oh, yes, good girl you are, so I am,” she said, dismounting and welcoming with a laugh the wet trail the mare's raspy tongue left on her palm as she gave her a small, but very small, carrot, before wiping the hand on her breeches. The tall girl stretched her legs, taking a ridiculously gilded horn from the inner pocket of the saddlebag, an eye back at the thick of the wood, deciding the voices she had perceived were probably ser Devan's and ser Addam's - not far, unluckily. Her advantage was not so important, in the end, but Brienne smiled at the thought of seeing Pod coming out the bushes, with the worried face the lad put always on as she bolt just a little from her duties.

Duties and privileges she had never asked to have.

She inclined the horn and left the water run on her short, messy locks, on her smooth brow, down to her ardent cheeks, cackling as the water formed a refreshing forked rivulet that seeped till her back, and drenched the collar of the lilac Dornish tunic with iridescent mother-of-pearl bottoms she had decided to wear as she had woken up in the softest bed she had ever experienced, indifferent to the astonished gazes of the mass of serving girls and ladies in waiting crowding the excessively pretentious room. Whatever she put on, she would always look horrible, and Jaime's dark glances had been a good practice yard for Brienne's insecurities, so, in the end, ugly for ugly, tease for tease, she found it easier to dress comfortably.

The voices of horsemen and ladies came to her inexorable like destiny, but it was the quiet creaking of trampled leaves to make Brienne's body get ready for a fight, the hardness of quiver and long bow giving good vibes to her spine.

There was nothing of dangerous, though.

Just a commoner, roughspun clothes, a sweated mop of hair and a dusty face, not far from being handsome. He would be even tall, even if not tall as Brienne, if he wouldn't be obliged to lean on a crutch. _An accident_ , she decided, noticing the leather straps holding together the man's leg from the knee to the ankle. _Painful, as it looks, if not more._ Tears of sweat rolled on the tired skin of a man who was almost surely used to keep pain and surprise in line. A sensible, brown-haired youth, who was observing the short-haired giantess and the well with the same, vivid but somehow not rude, interest, as if the cripple were more a knight than the seneschalc of Nightsong, who had made a jump when he had seen Brienne's new look, to the evident embarrass of both the sons of the former Lord of Nightsong, the highborn and the bastard.

“Thirsty, good fellow?”, she asked, banishing any useless thoughts, and the man sat on a pile of stones, nodding. She turned, just the time to pull up another bucket of water, and smiled as the stranger outstretched a pale hand to take the full horn from her fingers - electricity waved from him at the brief touch, but it was just a moment - from the way the cripple drank, his throat must be really parched, as Brienne's own was on the Dornish dunes, and not for the lack of water in her bags.

The commoner was about to thank her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the Lady Lannister's merry companions, the Hound for first, the usual growl on the scarred face, then Pod on the red-maned sand steed she had gifted him, the lady Margaery and ser Garlan, together, on their wonderful mounts. The lovely girl made out in a silvery laugh, but ser Garlan's face... Lord Mace's second son looked more Garlan the Gaping then Garlan the Gallant, right now.

“So, brother, since she made you eat her dust, it seems that Lord Renly's praises about the next Evenstar's prowess were not undeserved,” the man in roughspun clothes proclaimed, with the voice of a Lord. And with the face of Loras Tyrell, only older, wiser, less dashing but far more interesting.

Brienne stared at the heir to Highgarden, feeling a perfect idiot, but the lady Lannister replied something courteous and appropriate, apparently - so they all could move and bring that mummers' farce back to the perfumed halls of the graceful fortress dominating the Reach and the Mander.

She had read the river had its sources near Tumbleton - the town that had been subject to one of the cruelest and savagest sack after the Treason, the town that had rebuilt by its people under the lead of the Lady Footly, the town that boasted two dragon heads put in full display in the main square. A place far from the delights Brienne was enjoying in the mildness of the afternoon, far enough to justify why the Mander was that wide, clear and calm among the fields of melons and golden roses, easily navigable by seagoing vessels.

There were so many of them, their hold full with fruits and all kind of earth treasures. A bit disconcerted, the maid leaned against the wall of the one of the oldest towers, flat and square, finding it too soft and fragrant, as the mattress in which she had fallen asleep with some difficulties, since even the ancient bricks piled on by Garth Greenhand himself were covered in grapes and sweet smelling, thornless, climbing roses. Too many damn roses.

Their intense scent didn't impede her nostrils to trace his smell. Musk, leather, soap. He must have had a bath, for the serving girls' delight. Brienne could almost hear their titter at the sight of Jaime's gilded muscles, of the water drops following the V line sculpted on his lower belly. She could guess their comments, whispered beyond the door.

“Still hiding from me, wench?”, Jaime said, sharp. Too sharp, even considering how much embarrassing had been their waking up.

“Lord Mace will spend no word in Tyrion's favor,” she inferred and his hand balling into a fist was the answer she had feared. After all, if the Hand was no interested in saving his own blood, it was quite unlikely that the Tyrells risked the stern Lord of Winterfell's animosity for Jaime's sake. Jaime was no lord, only a brother. _No, not even a brother, but the Kingslayer. No one will ever move a finger for the Kingslayer,_ Brienne realized, and it saddened her, to think how it always came back to Mad Aerys, always. “Lord Renly is a good man...”

“I won't humiliate myself with that oaf of a stag.”

“You won't. I'll speak to Lord Renly as soon as he'll arrive, he's still my liege lord.”

“Is he?”

She shrugged, annoyed by the easiness with which she flushed under Jaime's penetrating gaze. Cut, twice cut, by too much green, she had lost the control of her body, as every blessed time, as if she wasn't clumsy enough even without being pierced by the green blades in his eyes, Gods be merciful – the slow flowing of the river becoming almost a solace. If only the blue waters weren't surrounded by the gold of petals and fruits as smooth and tasty as a man's lips.

“Is he, wench?”

“Tarth is still in the Stormlands, for all I can recall.”

“I don't want you to ask Renly.”

She shrugged, again, finding hard not to cringe. She had to speak with the Warden of the East, with the Lord which had gifted her of a dream, no longer than a dance, regardless of Tyrion, regardless of her own father's words.

“I'm serious, Brienne.” She turned, a bit wary. Jaime rarely used a tone so soft. “It would be useless.” A part of her knew he was right. A part of her wanted simply shout that he was wrong, that good lords as Renly would care about the life of an innocent, no matter if he was a dwarf and a Lannister. “Promise me.”

She nodded, her eyes stuck on the limpid surface of the Mander.

“Fine, wench. How about retiring to our chamber? I'd like you to help me answering the children, before dinner.” He sighed. “Tonight, the Crone herself is waiting for us, and her lamp is full of terrors and fucking thorns, I fear. So maybe you'd like to bath and wear a dress, for a change. The dark green one.”

Swallowing, Brienne looked down at her stained boots, then looked back to the river sides, where people worked promptly and peacefully. There was mud even there, as on her boots. Mud was a good thing. Far more honest than the lions and moons embroidered with tiny emeralds and lapis-lazuli on the bodice of the gown waiting for her. “I simply don't grasp it,” she said aloud, and Jaime looked at her, puzzled.

“Go on, wench.” Intrigued, not puzzled, his smile had the bittersweet whiteness of memories.

“All this beauty.” Brienne widened her too long arms to include the river, the towers and all things, and he winced as she brushed him. “I can't get it, how it works with beauty,” she went on, hoping the scum wouldn't notice how deep his repulsion hurt her. “With ships, it's easy. Their beauty is in the sails filled by wind, in the shape of the keel, that allows men to defy the sea. With weapons, it becomes a bit difficult. A sword is slender, sharp and often jeweled, a mace is normally sturdy and thick, but deadly all the same. What about a club well balanced, with long spikes on its head?”

Jaime burst in a laugh. “Are you threatening to steal my maidenhood with a spiked club, like a Wilding, sweetheart?" She must feel offended, but it was such a nice laugh, after all that time. "Only for having suggested you to dress like a lady, for once?”

She rolled her eyes, her fingers closing onto an imaginary stick. “I'm not merely speaking of a dress, jewels, or a couple of slippers.” The word _slippers_ came too dramatically out her lips and she felt an idiot, for the second time in the day. She had to control better her voice, slippers were always terrifying small for her feet but weren't ice spiders, for Gods' sake. “Look, Jaime, beauty is everywhere, here."

"I see freckles, and no beauty."

Brienne ignored his tease. "A dangerous beauty. Roses adorning the walls like a precious, poisoned hairnet. Even the briar labyrinth you can see below us seems no more than a lovely garden from here, because it's just a garden, now. What was once a defense, the Tyrells changed it into a vanity fair. Elegant, round towers, slender and frail, with ivy and grape and rose roots secretly crumbling the mortar among the bricks. I really don't grasp it, Jaime. The river is so wide, defenseless if not for a few watchtowers, anyone could bring a fleet just under the walls and what will the Highgarden people do, then? Bow in rich dresses? For all it may look hard, maybe even terrific, to strangers, the Rock will never betray the people shielding inside it.”

She smelled Jaime's uneasiness, acid as a yellow fireplum. Clearly, she had said just a ton of nonsense, because she was simply a thick-headed girl, with a body too big and heavy for a two feet high mattress filled with goose feathers.

_“Wench, stop rolling against me.”_

_“It's not me, it's the mattress.” It truly was the mattress, too soft, too yielding and imbibed of rose-water. She tried to get back to her side of the bed, only to sink even deeper in the sheets trap, and felt something hard against her buttocks. Something that wasn't decisively a pea hidden under layers and layers of feathers._

_“Fuck, Brienne. Just stop moving.”_

_She had already stopped moving or even breathing, glad it was dark, so dark that the Maiden above might not see her. She relaxed, a bit, only when Jaime managed to twist, his back was muscled, too warm, but decisively less threatening than his groins. Sleep was far to come, yet. She felt too hot for sleeping, sweat dripping between her practically inexistent breasts, pooling into her navel and down her belly and damp, she was damp even among her thighs, and it wasn't only sweat to wet her smallclothes. She pulsed, pulsed and throbbed, yet there was no way to ease herself into sleep, with a little, prohibited, touch. Not with him so close, and with him so close, Brienne's heart went on hammering in her chest, in her ears and in another place where it wasn't supposed to hammer._

_“_ Which shields?”, Brienne babbled, echoing the last word Jaime had said, to cope with her confusion.

“The Shield Islands, wench. Aren’t they enough to protect Highgarden?”

“Right. The Four Shields, that shield the Mander, as the name says. Greenshield, ruled by House Chester, Oakenshield...”

“Do I look like Podrick or Lancel to you? Then spare me the lesson, I had my hard time with Maesters, when I was a brat.” The sun setting had inflamed Jaime's hair and, since he was keeping it tied in a knot, also his ears. They glowed a pink-orange, like a child's pinched lobe, and Brienne had the strange sensation Jaime's dislike of writing had deep roots.

She left fall to the ground the rose she was torturing in her hands, and moved towards the stairs, glimpsing back to check if Jaime was following her. “Let's retire and write to Tommen and Myrcella. About the thing I bought for them, well, I’d like you not to spoil the surprise as you did for the toys I took for them in Ironwood,” she lamented, kicking away a big piece of brick. The first step was cracked, the second was covered by a yellowish ivy. “Pay attention, as you climb down, Jaime. Not many people have passed from here, recently.”

“Only clandestine lovers, I'd say.”

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister. A lion shouldn't be interested in rumors.”

“Rumors? The betrothal between ser Garlan Tyrell and the lady Leonette Fossoways will be soon announced, I guess. In the end, he's just a second son, he can wed for love.”

Brienne halted, squinting in the too low sunlit, thinking to tardy letters and to a certain second son she was betrothed to, even if she was still wed. It was as confusing as the heavy flowery scent in the evening air. Mixed to damn musk and fireplum, of course. “My father wed for love,” she bleated, stupidly.

“An exception, like my father,” Jaime replied, his fingers urging her to go on. She shoved them off her shoulder, annoyed by the warmth raising from her nape because of the sun's last attempts of burning her too pale skin, but he misunderstood her gesture. He always misunderstood her. “Hey, wench, don't you stiffen up with me. I don't make the rules, nor does your beloved Willas Tyrell. Twenty-seven and still unwed and not because he's lame or because he's waiting for a romance. It's called politics, sweetheart.”

This time Brienne didn't halt because of some naughty rays. “What does ser Willas have to do with it? Besides, you can't know if...”

“Ser? He's no knight.”

“Only because of a tourney accident.”

“Accident? Ask pretty Prince Oberyn Martell about it.”

“Ser Willas told me it has been an accident, and it's gross to insult Prince Oberyn after all he has done for me.”

“For you? For Dorne, fool of a wench, but don’t you mind, a Lannister always pays his debt.” Brienne turned completely to face the scum, only to find out that Jaime was towering on her from the height of two steps, and she wasn't used to be that little, nor to stare at all those muscles tensing underneath the velvet doublet. “About the cripple, when did he confide his soul to you, my fair lady, before or after he invited you to see his collection of hawks, hounds and horses?”

She should have send his lovely ass to kiss the steps. Instead, she childishly pinched the ruby glimmering bloody on his chest, until she managed to tear off the only eye of the smug lion embroidered on the smooth cloth.

“Now you’re blind. Enjoy it, my sweet lord,” she spat, tilting her chin with a glorious grimace.

“Enjoy your slippers, thief of a wench!”, he retorted, roughly, but the thief was already running down the stairs, her blue boots too quick for the old man to reach her. Jaime was so rude, and she detested it, but it was far worse when he was half a shit and half a knight.

_"Let the sheep stare, and don't a care a bit about them. It's not that bad. Short hair is far more practical when you spar, for instance," his grin widened as Brienne smiled to hide how much it confused her the sensation of his fingers running through her limp, thin hair, "I just... Gods, it was quite a foolish move, no one would ever mistake you for a man, you're too much a wench, wench."_

The servant had a lovely name and a lovely expression, which was only improved by the sudden mix of joy and incredulity showing up to her face.

“My lady, I-I can't accept it.”

“Why not, Daisy? You did a good work.”

“My-my lady,” the woman was on the verge of tears, treasuring the tiny gem in her palm as if it was a baby dragon. She looked older, her hands worn by the hard task of sewing, washing and ironing the complicate gowns of samite, but probably she was no more than thirty.

“Go, Daisy. It's yours. Please take away the slippers, too. I don't need them.”

The woman uttered something Brienne didn't understand, then bent into a dozen stiff bows, each one deeper than the precedent, before leaving. With a sigh, the lady Lannister faced again the mirror.

Daisy had been really good, making half a miracle to adjust the famous dark green dress to Brienne's broad body. She had grown in Dorne, and not only in height. After all that sparring with spear and Norvoshi longaxe, her arms were more toned, thicker, and even Daisy's ability hadn't been sufficient to save the sleeves, which had been necessarily sacrificed. Now, wearing a sleeveless gown was not a problem in itself. In the last three days, she had seen lady Margaery and her companions in sleeveless dresses or in gowns with bodices that tortured the flesh and bared shoulders and a good part of the bosom.

“Are you dressed, my lady?”, Lancel asked, from behind the oak door stuffed with the same brocade used for the canopy, the high chairs and even the big cushions cumbering on the twin chests at both sides of the marble fireplace.

“I am”, Brienne answered, dubious, feeling naked. She was naked, practically, judging from the squeak the young squire made as he entered. Of course, she was. She had seen Dornish and Reacher ladies show naked arms _or_ naked shoulders but not showing naked arms _and_ naked shoulders. _And_ a good part of the breast. A luck that Jaime had chosen not to take part at the feast, or he would have made her die of embarrass. 

“For you, my lady.” Lancel bowed so insistently while handing her a bunch of blue blossoms that the maid worried the boy could faint for the amount of blood that was currently draining to his brain.

At least Pod was simply lingering on the threshold and studying his toes, which was his favorite occupation, after training and studying algebra. The page seemed more concerned of what was happening outside the room then what was happening inside it, however.

An argentine laugh rang in the corridor, and Brienne regretted to have hoped it wasn’t Jaime who was coming. She was used to Jaime, more or less, she would even stand and gladly fight against a monster or two, but true ladies in silk armors were too a threat for her shaking nerves.

“Quick, Pod, bring me the chest, the big one with the gold necklaces. No, not that one, the other one.” Lancel ran to help the skinny lad, abandoning the flowers on a trunk, ending to bring her the wrong chest, the white one with the stuff Jaime never used.

“No, Mother, Brienne’s so kind, she won’t be upset by a little surprise.”

“Margaery, Margaery, you made us believe we were waited.” Brienne recognized Lady Alerie’s voice, but not the _tsk-tsk_ of the third woman who was coming with her and her daughter – the maid was too concentrated in finding in the chest something she could use to cover a bit of skin. Jaime’s arm bands, for instance. Beaten gold, thick and heavy like only the First Men would forge, very large, and fitting well her biceps and her forearms. It might work, if only she found out something to cover her breast.

“Ser Jaime’s flowers, my lady,” Lancel’s suggestion came in her help.

“The flowers, yes,” she whispered, barely breathing, her fingers trembling while fixing a cluster of blue buds at her bosom, terrified by the thought of ruining the petals, which looked as delicate as Yi-Tish porcelain. The mirror told Brienne that she was mannish and hideous, notwithstanding all the time Daisy had passed crimping her hair and polishing her neck and shoulders with some jasmine fragrant powder – even the touch of coralline salve on her lips looked ludicrous, making her lips even fuller. Modesty was partially saved, at least, and the lapis-lazuli of the bodice shimmered a lovely sky-blue that was not that bad with her eyes. Even Septa Roelle had said she had pretty eyes, just once, but…

“May the Maiden bless me!” A very small and very wrinkled woman with a cane was staring at Brienne, and Brienne realized that even intransigent people like Septa Roelle could lie, for pity, once in their lives.

“Mother…”

“Alerie, if I’d given birth to you, I’m sure I’d remember. So, shut up, please, and let the adults speak,” the wizened crone added, and Brienne had the certainty the Queen of Thorns fully deserved her reputation. “Let me see you, girl.” With little steps, the lady Olenna Tyrell circled around Brienne as if she was a statue in a Sept. “Aren’t you just marvelous? Absolutely singular! Is that a Tarth style? Oh, I don’t care. I adore it.” The wrinkled face grinned a toothless grin, the spotted hand playing with a jade medallion hung to a very thin neck. A profile carved on it. “My lord husband probably saw something similar when he got distracted and fell from the cliff, saddle and horse included.”

“Grand-ma, have you seen them?”, Margaery sang, enthusiast. “Blue gardenias. Gentleness, innocence and what else, Mother?”

“Where there’s a gardenia, a love is kept secret,” the Lady Alerie concluded, fanning herself with a plume and silver fan.

“Nonsense. Love is never a secret,” grunted the crone. “Mostly if you use your teats as a gardened balcony.”

“My lady!”, Brienne couldn’t help but reply, shocked, but the woman tsk-tsk-ed her, with her gaunt index finger pointing to the center of the maid’s belly. She was really the size of a child. A wicked child.

“Take it as a compliment, big girl, but don’t you stay convinced of having invented the trick, not before Olenna of House Redwyne,” she turned towards her grand-daughter. “My teats were even smaller than those ones, Margaery, but I never heard your grand-father complain about it. A singer wrote a ballad about the color of my buds, and not for money like that terrible song that was played for your mother’s name day. Oh, sorry, Alerie, I have the tendency of forgetting your presence, change perfume or do something useful, like fanning at me, if you really can’t be less insipid. It’s too warm, here. Lad, a cup of honeyed ale, fresh as a northern wind, now.”

The woman took a seat, followed by her kin. The lady Alerie preferred to go inspect the preparations for the banquet, instead, walking slender and shapely as a maiden, even if she had had four children. Brienne shoot a pleading glance to Lancel and felt miserable as the good guy left to find the honey, the ale and the ice. Probably he would get lost in the corridors of the huge castle.

“What was that? Un unsalted version of ser Jaime? A personal guard?”, the lady Olenna asked, pointing her cane to the closed door, “With Lannister blood, of course. Your lord husband must be very insecure to put a lion cub and a hound constantly on your back, child.”

A hound? No, that had nothing to see with the fact Clegane was always in Brienne’s way, lately.

“Grand-ma means that ser Jaime is surely jealous of your extraordinary beauty, Brienne.”

“No, I meant what she has exactly understood, Margaery, don’t treat clever people like dumb or you’ll have to worry of things more important than horses and curls,” the crone stated. “So, my lady of Lannister, find your tongue and tell us about this fabulous and hurried wedding of yours. All marriages are quite crazy things, but yours, they say it was peculiar, and it still is peculiar, maybe.”

Brienne choose not to worry more about wrinking the dress and seated in front of her guests. “Peculiar is a recurring word, today, and it’s peculiar enough to confuse me. I wish I was clever as you gently said, to address more adequately to such a lady like your ladyship is.”

To her honor, the old woman cackled, reminding Brienne of Tyrion, somehow. “Good Gods, girl, your claws are sharp. Have they already changed you into a lioness? I told you, Margaery, as I told my oafish son, when the Hand has settled so brilliantly the Riverrun mess, winning it to his kin with a new, little apostil in the succession law. Lord Tywin is no man to fear the schemes of the likes of Renly and Loras. Don’t misunderstand me, big girl, I love those two, I love less the fact they’re involving my only granddaughter in their dream of grandeur, but she’s green and eager to become the new Lady of Storm’s End. Why, I wonder, since that's a place detested by the Gods. I meant no offence, Brienne, I know its castellan is your kin and you had a good time there - by the way, who poisoned you?”

“I did it all by myself.” From the shadowed corner in which he had repaired, Pod started at his lady’s lie. “I can be such an inept sometimes.”

“An inept, I see. Even with a sword?” There was a spark in the Lady Olenna’s narrowed eyes that Brienne couldn’t decipher.

“I practice swordplay, but I doubt I'll be ever of the same level of a renowned swordman like ser Garlan. They say he's used sparring against two or three men at time.”

“Even four men at time,” Margaery specified, prideful. "And you should see how Loras joust."

“Margaery, darling, listen and learn. Modesty is quite a better weapon than useless boasts, which always show your weaknesses to the adversary.”

“Loving a brother isn’t a weakness," Brienne said, trying to keep her voice steady, "and I’m no adversary, my ladies.”

“Love’s always a weakness, and so duty is, if not kept at bay by wits.” The white head tilted towards her. “If it'd depend from me, we'd never be adversaries, Brienne of Tarth. We’ll see. Margaery’s only fourteen, her wedding won’t take place before the next year and we could be pleasantly surprised of what may happen till that moment. By now, all we have to do is attending to another feast and, before that, finding something to ameliorate that absurd head of yours, my lady of Tarth. You look like a sparrow chick... a very tall one."

_"Brienne, child, your hair... your silvery, long hair... almost as beautiful as Targaryens'..."_

_"Almost", Brienne replied, softly, not wanting to contradict her father, not now that they were parting, and only Gods knew how many moons or years would pass before she would meet his lined face again._

_"How dared that beast? You won't return to Casterly Rock, it's decided. I don't fear Lord Tywin's or the Kingslayer, I..."_

_"Stop calling him that way," she burst out. "You never listen, the hair cut was my choice and only mine, and I won't break my word."_

_Lord Selwyn's face passed from shock to steel, and his eyes became as polished as a mirror. "You couldn't cut it that way, not all by yourself." He put a hand on her mouth, his glance backing at the half-closed door, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I know you Brienne, you're far better than I am and I know the only reason you would ever lie is Tarth. I was wrong to let you get involved in a game too big for you, child, but I'll make things right. Be brave, and wait for my letter. It will not delay."_

“Grand-ma!” Margaery was so gracious that even her protests were graceful.

“What? Her hair is awful and it’s wise to be honest with the people you like, if you don’t want to be surrounded only by lickspittles and flatterers. Now, do what you’re good in, darling, and fumble in that chest until you find some decent stuff – no. No. No. No. Yes, that one.”

Brienne shook her head, but the doe-eyed girl smiled and put the golden ring on the maid's head, all the same. At least, it was quite a plain ring, with runes as ancient and mysterious as the ones engraved on the bands she was already wearing on her arms, with only a small gem chained to it – probably an aquamarine, or an extremely rare blue dragontear. It had even the shape of a tear.

Podrick clapped in unison with the young lady, and for the first time the crone noticed him. “A Payne?”, she decided looking at the golden coins embroidered on the lad’s purple tunic. “Hope he’s as discreet as the other Payne, the one King Aerys shorted of a tongue.”

“There’s no more loyal boy than this one, lady Olenna,” Brienne said, feigning not to be affected by the name of the man who gave Jaime no rest.“About the last of Targaryen kings, I wonder if you have known him personally.”

“Sure, that I have, as I have known even King Aegon the Unlikely. I was supposed to wed one of his son, but luckily, I never had to put my foot in Summerhall.”

“Grandma is obviously sorry that your kin died there, Brienne.”

“Ser Duncan was a good man, that one. Not half a dunk as someone stated, and never afraid by the oddness of the dragonlords. Oddness that ser Jaime recalls better than me, for a certainty.”

“Mad Aerys was far from being simply odd, my lady.”

“King Aerys was handsome, brilliant, charming in his youth. His descent into madness was something odd, girl,” the crone replied, licking her thin lips. Brienne knew she was losing the game, but she had to try.

“The Queen Rhaelle,” she begun, the golden ring heavy on her forehead, “they say the King was violent with her.”

“So that’s the reason ser Jaime slain him in his back? Nice try, a pity your lord Husband has forgotten to tell you the Queen was safe in Dragonstone when King’s Landing was sacked. It was the Princess Elia and her children to be abandoned to their fate, as your Dornish friends have surely dutifully reminded you.”

_“Yes, I was named after Father’s sister, but he doesn’t want us to talk about her. He hurts too much, says Mother, because she was a Princess of Dorne, slender as I am, but beautiful, and loyal, and she wed the Prince of Dragonstone and gave him two children, and the silver-haired scum abandoned her. For a she-wolf,” Elia sniffed at her linen tunic probably without noticing it smelled like a horse, then toyed nervously with her long black braid. “But don’t tell it to anyone, or they’ll anger with me, because you’re a Lannister and it was the Lannisters monstrous dog who murdered the princess and her children. Oh, sorry, my lady, Brienne, I talk too much, it’s not your fault if they made you wed the man who slain his King in the back.”_

_“Not in the back.”_

_“What?”_

_“Jaime didn’t hit him in the back.”_

_The young girl shrugged. “Mad Aerys was good for the worms all the same. So were the Princess and her children.”_

_“I saw them.” Brienne confessed, feeling guilty. “Once, before the Iron Throne. They were wrapped in a crimson cloak.”_

_“Ah, a dragon dream. It’s fine, I think, there’s always people who dream queer dreams and since dragonblood flows in our veins, it’s easier for us. Not that I ever dreamed nothing queer, till now.”_

_“It wasn’t queer, El, but dreadful. Dreadful like Jaime’s dreams.”_

_“Does he dream, too? He’s no blood of the dragons.”_

_“No, he isn’t and I’m not sure those are simply dreams. Memories, I think they’re memories. He curses the Mad King, and repeats the names of the Princess, of her children, of the Queen, Rhaella. Sometimes, Jaime shouts also the names of Prince Rhaegar, of ser Arthur Dayne and...”_

_The girl spitted on the white marble, veined with lilac, looking at Brienne with Prince Oberyn’s fervent eyes. “Don’t say that name too loud, my lady. Not here. Do you know how the Sword of the Morning died? Killed by the Lord of Winterfell, in a tower not too far from the Kingsgrave, while he was guarding the she-wolf. He was a Dornish of Skyfall, he should have died on the Trident like the Prince Lewyn or in King’s Landing, protecting Elia and her children.” She spitted, again. “Don’t tell it to anyone, my lady, or Mother will impede me riding for weeks and talking with you anymore, and I like you so much, even if you wed and bedded the Kinglayer. Oh, sorry, I always talk too much.”_

“Grandma, we talked even too much," broke in the lady Margaery, reaching out for Brienne's hand, "I guess we should reach the banqueting hall, Lord Renly has surely had the time to rest from his travel and change for the feast, by now.”

“Yeah, Lord Renly. The King’s brother. The current King, I mean, who knows for how long. Forgive me, girls, at a certain age, kings are not as interesting as a good, frank discussion with one of your kin. Oh, sure, we’re not kin,” the lady Olenna made a strange face, taking a while to raise on her short legs. “Not yet, Brienne, but who knows? I’d like to see again that good hips of yours in the future, and not in occasion of another boring ball.”

A ball. Renly. Brienne’s heart maddened like a blackcap entrapped in a net. 

"Of course, you will. When I'll wed Renly, we'll become sisters, more or less, won't we, Brienne?"

"Sisters. It sounds lovely," concluded the crone, and Brienne had to say something that sounded nice and grateful.

Something she hardly recalled a moment later, when she followed the Tyrell ladies and saw the carpet of flowers on the stairs. Tulips, geraniums, columbines, carnations, chrysanthemums, all red like passion. But at the end of the staircase, the man had pinned a blue gardenia on his dark green doublet, slashed with red and sky-blue, and the man wasn’t Renly, since his hair shone the beaten gold of Lannisters in the soft light of the torches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ball, yes. This work was meant to have a couple of chapters less, but I couldn't resist to the temptation of a ball in Highgarden.
> 
> Indulge my need of a bit of fluff&glitter, and, ok, I'm afraid that blue gardenias don't exist if not in a song, but we're talking about A Song of Ice and Fire, so songs rule.
> 
> And, about music, I hope you'll enjoy the Lann's variation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ball in Highgarden, from Jaime's POV.

He shouldn’t be that stunned. He had seen her move with the same agility, the same liquid grace. On the yard, parrying ser Benedict Broom’s blows with a speed and a fluidity unexpected for one of her size. On the deck, in the flash of lightnings, when it rained an angry world. She had seemed so unsure, after the storm, the shirt plastered on her skin, lips dark as the clouds, almost blue, quivering whilst Jaime - what did Jaime do? Nothing but toss her something dry to put on. He should have kissed her that time, didn't he want to kiss the wench even then? A little taste of salt from her lips, before peeling the drenched clothes off, to warm each other and drink the raindrops on her pale skin.

The golden fool felt the same thirst, now, but refused the red-haired servant's offer. He needed no wine. He needed a good song, instead, one fucking chance to make things right, only that, and Renly's head on a silver plate. Was that jealousy? No, it wasn’t. Of course, it wasn’t, Renly and Brienne were just dancing, a boring, slow dance, and how could a lion be jealous of a man who liked praying so much with the youngest of the Tyrells' bunch?

Addam was wrong, that’s was plain.

_Frankly, Jaime, the only problem with Lyle is that he’d like to knock your pretty head on the table to see if there’s something which can still be saved inside it, and I confess I’d join him willingly,” Addam said, as soon as Strongboar had left._

_Jaime raised a brow, not wanting to believe that he had to deal with something more annoying that Strongboar’s mood or his father’s request of a meeting. An_ _urgent_ _meeting - with one of the Rock most prominent bannermen. In other words, another pain in the arse and Jaime had to thank Cersei and her personal feud against Stannis for it._

_With loathing, he stared at the intricate pattern of wood covering the walls of the chamber that Garth Tyrell had assigned to the heir of Ashemark until Addam closed the window and stepped rudely into his sight, arms crossed. “Jaime, I'm serious. Why did you ordered Clegane to follow every step of her?” That was a weird news, and he'd like to dig a bit about it, but Addam gave no sign of being tired of his own chatter. “The lady Brienne never gave you a reason to be jealous.” Jaime felt a tug in his chest - just the mention of her name turned the flicker to a flame, lately, she could be so damn upsetting and he was not provided with patience, as his childhood friend surely knew._

“ _And mean,” the copper-haired scum had the cheek to conclude._

“ _Mean? Jealous?”, Jaime's smile was sharp as a razor. “Of whom? Of a cripple?”_

_The face of the man standing in front of him became of the same hideous pink of the gown Brienne wore the first time they had met._

“ _Gods, Jaime, y_ _ou're jealous even of Willas Tyrell?”, Addam opened and closed his hands, copper shimmering in his shoulder-length hair when he shook his head. “It's really hard to understand you, of late. Being jealous of Oberyn Martell is a thing, the man's infamously charming. He has more bastards than King Robert and beds with boys as well, that's why we never left the lady alone with him or with any other fucking Dornish. Never. I swear it, Jaime. Even if it wasn't necessary, she never looked at the Prince or any other the way she looks at you.”_

Hurt. Brienne glanced at him, hurt, as she walked down the marble stairs leading to the banquet hall, and the little birdies in the silver cages went tweet, tweet, tweet, at the sight of her hand on Devan's arm, making Jaime realize he had done something wrong. His clothes were wrong, for instance, disappointing. He was always disappointing. Then, the wench lowered her large eyes to her toes, and Jaime noticed with a smirk she was wearing the boots she had in the afternoon, under a dress heavy of gems and sky-blue myrish lace.

And what a dress it was, on her. Different from what Jaime had imagined it.

His gaze climbed up the dark green samite which was caressing, slinkly, the curve of her hips, lingering on the jeweled bodice he judged immediately as laced too tight for allowing such a wench to breath properly, halting on the blue buds pinned on the neckline. _A certain use of flowers should be prohibited_ , Jaime thought, and swallowed. From any other woman, that would have been an answer, a yes, and already a seduction. From Brienne, it was just petals and flesh, frail petals on bare flesh, too much softness for Jaime's taste. Too many realizations and too much warmth in the hall, judging from the way she was drowning in a lovely crimson under his frown, waves of blush flowing from her neck to her polished shoulders, to her arms, naked if not a for those bands of gold. Jaime closed his mouth, feeling his jaw become as hard as a the black diamond brooch he was toying with.

Too much skin and freckles, in display, for all to be seen.

Glimpsing back, he noticed how Lord Mace's hand had stopped in mid-air as if the plump man was no more able to find his greedy mouth, whilst ser Garlan's dainty lady has turned her lover's head to her for a quick kiss profiting of the general distraction and whilst the tiniest and most shriveled crone of all times shared a look Jaime didn't like - at all - with her beloved grandson, the young, pious, gentle and not hard to look upon Willas, who loved eagles, books, constellations and who had just the Reach to offer to the bride of his choice.

Jaime's eyes came back to the wench and he was washed up by relief. She was just the wench he used to know, ugly and uncomfortable in a dress, boots or not boots, almost stumbling when the Lord of Storm's End hurried at the end of the staircase to greet her. No runes or blue dragonglass pendant might ever save Brienne from her clumsiness, the perpetual shyness that made her seem more a green squire than a woman grown and flowered. She could have fallen at Renly's feet, if not for Devan - Jaime's stomach turned suddenly sour and he picked a strawberry to ease the sensation of burn. It exploded with sweetness in his mouth, but left a tarty, fresh note on his palate, tarty and fresh like a certain maiden, that wasn't supposed to dance with the first fucking handsome Lord she met at the end of a vapid staircase.

“ _Jaime, I don't care if you want to know them or not...”_

“ _Them? What are babbling of?”_

“ _T_ _he rumors.” Jaime's nostrils flared in anger, a lion was no interested in rumors._ “ _Yesterday I was with a serving girl, prettily bosomed, a bit dumb...”_

“ _Good for you,” Jaime's fingers cut the air like a blade to suggest Addam to stop, immediately._

_“... and the gal asked me about the Maid of Tarth," Addam went on, a edge of nervousness in his voice," I laughed, and reminded her that the Lady Brienne was no more the Maid of Tarth, but the Lady Brienne Lannister. The wench simply stared at me as if I were the stupid one in the room and insisted that all the servants call the Lady Brienne that way. The. Maid. Of. Tarth. As if she were still a maiden, and not a woman wed and bedded. Absurd, isn't it?,” Addam asked, made a pause, a long pause, and swore, when the wait became too long to be other than a confession._

She had nib something at Willas' side, too taken in talking with the cripple to fill properly her stomach like a healthy wench was supposed to do, and she had just posed her hand on the fucking cripple's one, when she was asked again of a dance. Jaime didn't know what to do or think: the Maid of Tarth was surprisingly graceful even while dancing with a knight who was a head shorter than her. A knight? Jaime's wits had gone to rot, if he had exchanged that homely youth of House Hunt for a knight, he was surely just a squire and he should have remained at his place, sitting good and quiet like Lord Randyll's fat son. With a swirl and a curtsy, the wench ended in ser Garlan's arms and smiled at him fondly for some curious reason. Well, Garlan Tyrell was a gallant man, they say, his heart already engaged. Whatever he was telling Brienne had no importance, since he was known for being a skilled swordsman and not a schemer. He was a good dancer, however, and made the wench spun and spun, and her cheeks were so flushed, now, that she needed certainly a break.

Luckily, the Lord of Horn Hill danced no better than one of those boundary stones on the Rose Road, stiff, slow and arrogant, and he made her stiffen, too. The muscles on Brienne's back were hard, sweat shimmered on her nape, but it was Lord Tarly's fault, not hers, he made her go out of step with the music, since the bald man was probably used to smaller, more compliant partners. She didn't mask well her pleasure when Devan came in her rescue, slipping a hand to her waist to made her shift graciously on the shining floor to avoid to crash against Loras Tyrell and his sister. Jaime had to admit they made a beautiful couple. The two Tyrells, both pretty and lightsome - but also his cousin and the wench were quite a sight. Devan was just a couple of inches shorter than Jaime, so they were impressive, tall and majestic, compared to the other couples. The green silk of Devan's doublet, slashed with red and blue, fitted well his sinewy body and brought out the few sparkles of emerald from the young man's hazel eyes, whilst the dark gold of the crown on Brienne's forehead matched with Devan's short hair, as it would have matched with Jaime's long curls, if the heir to the Rock would finally join the dancers, instead of brooding on a cushioned chair like a fucking Northman.

Too soon, Renly claimed back the wench, looking direct into her eyes whilst crossing half the hall, since he was of an eight with her, with the same, broad shoulders, the same, vague Baratheon aura.

That, along with the smile on Willas Tyrell's face, was the last provocation Jaime could stand.

“Time for the Lann's variation!”, the lion called out, standing tall in his attire of black velvet, embroidered in cloth-of-gold and studded, on both shoulders, with dark diamonds - and Strongboar's fist on the table did knock over half of the cups, drugging the air with a rich smell of fruit and wine.

“Lann's variation!”, repeated Devan, louder, making the lady Graceford swirl on the floor, whilst the hoarse laugh of the Hound below the dais overcame even Lyle's one.

“In honor of the lady Margaery, and of her betrothed, the Warden of the East,” specified wisely Addam, bowing in direction of the Lord and the Lady of Highgarden, before getting on his arms to jump beyond the table like a brat. The grin the rangy knight from Ashemark gifted Jaime as he took the brooch from his friend's palm was as dashing as the huge black diamond on the brooch itself, so huge that more than a highborn guest gaped in pleased shock. Fools. Didn't they know the prize for the Lann's variation couldn't be just a chest of overripe fruits or a few fucking flowers?

“ _Flowers.”_

“ _For a start, Jaime. You have to take it slow. Don't rush things or you'll fuck up it again. Flowers are a nice way to apologize for having being so stupid and they are, at the same time, a nice way to begin a courtship.”_

“ _Flowers,” the golden-haired fool agreed, his throat parched as the time the sand had wrapped him and the wench in a solid cloak. He came back to himself only when Addam grabbed his forearm with the same force that his friend had used to smash a chair onto the wall, a few moments before. “All the red flowers you can find, Addam. But no roses.” She detested roses, even if Jaime didn't know why. He knew practically nothing of Brienne, only that he couldn't get her off his mind. He couldn't. Only the thought of her turned his whole world misty blue. “Blue,” he added in a breath, before Addam could pass the threshold. “Send her also a crown of blue blossoms. The ones with petals which seem porcelain, soft porcelain.”_

“ _Gardenias.”_

“ _Gardenias. Where's Lancel when I need him the most?”_

“ _You sent him to your other cousin with your dark green attire and the order for ser Devan to wait for the lady and replace you at the feast.”_

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_FUCK._

_But Jaime could still wear the black velvet garb, provided that he could find his witless squire somewhere. Black enhanced the color of his hair - and made him look younger than his thirties. Which was a good thing since she was so young, so damn young._

Following ser Prester's instructions the drummers started hammering on their instruments, like at the siege of Pyke, forcing the other players to improvise, to follow the new rhythm, under the excited, dreamy eyes of the youngest of the Tyrells girls.

A music deign of being danced was what the heir of Lann the Clever was waiting, to go and steal his wench from Renly's arms. The Lord of Storm's End seemed to find it very funny, Brienne looked simply appalled, too appalled even to say a word, and young. She was so young that she even smelled of youth. Of youth, lemons and myrtle, mixed to jasmine. Jaime decided he loved the new jasmine note, too, like he loved the sensation of warmth underneath the samite, where his fingers dug to hold her tight as he begun to lead. He loved even more the queer, rough sensation of the callouses of her palm, when he weaved his fingers between hers and the thought that he could dance with her also on a yard made him chuckle. She missed a step. Two steps. Maybe it was only the music which was again accelerating, or maybe she was trying to lead in Jaime's place.

“As if you could”, he said, grinning, ignoring her scowl.

They parted, just the time for Jaime to circle around her, his hand never leaving the wench's thick waist and if that simple touch made the Reachers gobble with scandal, that was their loss. The Lann's variation was such an easy game to play: steal the lady you want and hold on till the music dies to get the prize - there were no difficult rules, and Jaime didn't care of the opinion of some turkeys in silk and lace. But Brienne, she was different matter, and she was growing tense.

“Relax, wench,” he whispered into her ear when the dance steps brought him enough close. “It's just a game, the music plays and the couple who resists an instant more of the other couples wins. Ladies can't change partner, but a man can in any moment steal another man's lady if the latter breaks the contact with his lady.” That's how Addam had managed to dance with the essosi beauty originally chosen by ser Jon Fossoway, but Brienne still stared puzzled at the fingers holding her wrist as a soft rope, her scarlet lips holding back a question - then her solid body came, burning, back in Jaime's arms. “Right. Left. Right. Left. Cadence, now, my lady.” Jaime's palm had only to impress the move on the little of her back, drums and timbres covered their quickened heartbeat when Brienne took flight, concluding the jump perfectly in time, one leg ahead of the other, and so prettily entwined with Jaime's own legs.

She even dared a smile, that disappeared as soon as she realized the little Crane lady hadn't been as skilled as her, stumbling and crumbling on the Lord Quenten Baneford, who had clearly stolen the wrong lady.

“Eliminated”, the Hound yelled, and the foolish girl in Jaime's arms turned her thick head back to the two who were already reaching their seats on the dais, putting all at risk.

“No time for pity, wench, not when you're on a battlefield.”

“Is that a battle?”, she asked, panting a bit, but the way she did the cadence was again a wonder to look at.

“Of course, Lann was a thief _and_ a warrior. Time for a double spin, my lady.” She spun and spun, in a whirl of green and gold and blue, then the harp, the lute and the flutes gave them and the drummers the time for recuperating some breath.

Their forearm touched, laced together, as they slowly walk along an immaterial curve on the stone floor, parting again as the tambourines rang their damn order, but soon their palms came back to kiss each other and she had to turn her face him, finally, as they proceeded in unison, towering on the other dancers. Jaime smiled, since the music had dust away any perfumed powder and Brienne's freckles were back to where they did belong, in a glow of timid, suffused pink. The small spots, the rose tinge, the blue-sky lace went so damned well with her eyes and with the crown of the Kings of the Rock that Jaime was about teasing the wench about the choice of the heavy gold band. The tambourines denied him of that pleasure, though – their bells tingled one, two, three times.

The sign that the drummers had rested enough.

“Ready, wench?”, Jaime asked, but the music changed so brusquely that he had to lift her without waiting for an answer. It didn't matter, she was born ready: right, left, right, left, another lift, then a hovering bounce and, notwithstanding the thrice damned bodice, the wench had still breath enough to join him into a small laugh when Devan's arse hit the floor. Devan was laughing, too, and even the still pleasant Lady Alerie seemed well amused and glad to get back to her applauding husband on the honor seats. The drums imposed three cadenced jumps all in a row, and it was a carnage. Addam's lady almost swoon in his arms and some other couples left the floor, doomed by the frenzy of the music or simply afraid of what was surely coming next.

The core of the Lann's variation. Seven cadences and seven lifts, all in a row, and then the Trick.

Quite a deal, even for Jaime's muscles, that were beginning to sore. He stepped left, then right, his eyes entranced by a drop of sweat that trembled on her jaw, for an endless moment, till it fell on a blue petal. Now it looked like dew. He raised his gaze, ashamed, and found out Brienne was crowned in dew and gold like a spring Goddess, her limp hair stuck to her high forehead, her lips bloody red, her eyes filled with glory as if she had just lead her men to a victory. Whilst his brain conjured the most interesting images of other contexts for said lips, Jaime's feet missed a step, but Brienne prevented him to fall, her arms gentle even when she held him tight in a concert of gasps, cheers and drums, giving him a fever that was hard to bear. Jaime had to lean her forehead on hers, sweat on sweat, not to choke for his own laughter and lose definitely the hellish rhythm.

“Oh,” she murmured, apologetically, red as a passion flower and suddenly shy, breathless. “I had to improvise.”

“Love improvisation, wench,” he panted, as breathless as her and stunned by the sensation it wasn't the first time he fully realized that happiness was just a thing called Brienne.

“ _Do you truly believe I took the right decision, ser?”_

“ _You did it, for everybody, but mostly for the piglet.” Seated under the crimson canopy of their bed at Casterly Rock, her fingers busy in loosening the hair she used to wear in a long braid, she looked at him from under her lashes, wary, but not too wary. Her eyes shone also of mirth and softness and of something rarer, more precious then all the sapphires of that rotting world. “Arise, Ser Brienne, defender of all the orphans and orphan piglets of the Westerlands,” Jaime grinned, squeezing her hands to force the reluctant maid on her feet, a bit too unceremoniously, too efficiently. She fell in his arms, and, at once, she waved aside, nudging his jaw with her cheek to put some distance between their lips. A touch so sudden, brief and deadly like a dragon's breath. It left a trail of goose bumps in his wake, along Jaime's nape, the ridge of his spine, making him cringe. He had never felt so terrified - and so good._

His hands hadn't grown tired of the game and ran feverishly back to her waist, and there she was, in mid-air, the lights of candlesticks making her creamy skin glimmer in one, two, three, four, five, six, seven different nuances and moments, the grin never leaving Jaime's face because he had always known he was strong enough for her. He only wondered if he was strong enough to bear all that light and ignore the flames consuming him from the inside.

She made out a loud, ardent sigh as her feet touched again the floor, and smiled - a smile that made the lilacs want to grow. Jaime thought of her covered only by amethysts and sapphires and hoped she wasn't smiling only for the relief of drums yielding again to the flutes, like anyone else had yielded to the maddening succession of quick steps - anyone but them and Strongboar. It didn't surprised Jaime. For big as he was, Lyle was a talented dancer and the slender lady Margaery was so no trouble for the formidable biceps of the knight from Crakehall. The doe-eyed Tyrell girl shoot him a defiant grin, Brienne gifted Lyle of one of her rare smiles, the ones which lifted up her freckles face. The last two ladies, for one diamond brooch.

A drum roll. _The_ drum roll. The wench had been a fool to feel relieved so early.

“The Trick, my lady.” She looked at him interrogatively, her breast heaving and falling, heaving and falling against his chest. “Just squeeze me, and don't stop till I tell you when!”, he added, enjoying her confusion and the smoothness of her cheek on his, as he started a slight rotation to right and she followed. It was the music that ordered them to spin, twirl and forget things. The cares that hung around Jaime through the weeks seemed to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak, he had only one care left. “Close your eyes, I won't let you fall,” he whispered, worried, when her breaths became frantic, irregular, underneath the stupid armor of samite.

“Jaime…” She melted onto him, suddenly heavy as a vow. “I-I…can’t…”

Some petals fell, Pod shouted in dismay, when her gown shone of lapis-lazulis and emeralds in the last swirl as ser Jaime Lannister slowed down, ignoring the roar of drums, to pool with her on the floor, adjusting well her body against his so that she wouldn’t touch the cold stone.

The hall exploded around them, then, but Jaime’s lips curved the same in a smile when Strongboar lifted the lady Margaery over his head, in triumph, and Renly came forward, handsome and gallant, to consign the glittering prize to the lovely Tyrell girl, all ringing laughs and messy curls. The Lannister knight had kept his promise, he hadn't let his lady fall.

“Sorry, I made you lose the fight.” Brienne’s voice was so small that only Jaime could hear her, in the turmoil of cheers and yells and hands clapping, but she was breathing normally, now. “How I hate bodices.”

He chuckled, and since her hand was still trembling on the arm that he had wrapped around her to keep her half-sitting, he was on the verge to kiss her fingertips, one by one, and confess her that he hated bodices, too, but then but then Jaime got struck by the thought of him tugging at the thrice damned laces and discovering new freckled skin, a vision so vivid that the words dried in his throat. He drifted his glance, because it wasn’t meet to think to a lady that way. It wasn't meet to stay in the same room whilst a lady was undressing, either. There were a lot of servants ready for the task. _They say_ _t_ _he Lady Lannister has sowed gems on her path,_ Jaime pondered, his chin still resting on Brienne's short locks. _Every serving girl of this stupid place craves to be the one who’ll help her taking off her silks, putting mint scented balm on the red wheals surely left by the laces, damping the sweat away with a cloth and..._

“Water, my lady? My lord?”

The wench accepted the shimmering cup that Lancel was offering her, and brought it to Jaime’s mouth. Water had never been so good, and he was really thirsty, but he saved half the cup for Brienne and, as her full lips pecked the silver edge of the cup, Jaime decided that he would make her turn to kiss her, in front of all people, damn all prudence and tact. _Take a chance, it may be good or bad, but it's beautiful to take a chance. And if you fall, you fall,_ he said to himself, his hand already cupping her cheek.

“ _No kisses. Never”, she had said and Jaime had insanely agreed._

“How about reaching our commensals, wench?”, the Lannister knight proposed, feigning to brush away something from her cheek, as soon as Brienne's lips stopped kissing the silvery surface of the cup, which was perfectly smooth as a Myrish mirror.

_“_ _Take_ _it slow. Step by step. Don't frighten her. Try to listen to her sometimes, you dumb.” Jaime stated solemn, alone in Addam's chamber, then smiled, and the mirror smiled back at him, with the same green hope in its eyes of polished silver._

_Time was all he needed, and he still had more than a year._

Time seemed to have stopped. Their fingers entangled when the wench took the hand that Jaime had let drop on her belly, lost in dreams he had never had - the Rock resounding of laughs, laughs on a training yard, on the shore, laughs of a wench, laughs of children, but only if she would want, only when she would want - and finally they got up, slowly, very slowly. One of the knight of the Highgarden household made a comment about how the stone covering the floor of the feast hall was evidently softer than a feathered mattress, probably not for the petals on it, and Brienne caught Jaime staring at her.

The lion chuckled, stealing a blossom before leaving her, with a jape, into the cheerful hands of the Lady Margaery and of the other flattering ladies, firmly resolved that it was better sleeping on the carpet, for a while, instead of sharing a bed too soft with a wench who blushed, unfairly, all the way down past the blue flowers pinned on the neckline of her dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne's dance is a galliard/saltarello, more or less, with elements of pavane and volta, but I can't boast of being an expert of it, so forgive all the mistakes.
> 
> For Jazz/Blues lovers, a few Easter Eggs from:  
> Misty blue - Etta James  
> When My Sugar Walks Down The Street (All The Little Birdies Go Tweet-Tweet-Tweet) – Duke Ellington/ Ella Fitzgerald  
> Happiness is just a thing called Joe – Peggy Lee  
> Fever – Peggy Lee  
> Cheek to Cheek – Luis Armstrong  
> But beautiful – Tom Bennett, Lady Gaga


End file.
